Slipping
by Syntyche
Summary: Clint Barton hates zombies. Too bad he spends so much time wondering if he is one. Angsty. Teamfic, but Clint-centric.
1. Chapter 1

This strange little story popped into my mind at 2:30 this morning, pulling me from sleep and nagging to be written. I rolled over, grabbed my phone, typed it out in memo in three minutes, and this is the result. Sorry if it sucks…? Lol. The narrative is purposely fragmented and jumpy to illustrate a not-quite-cohesive thought process.

The story's mine, but that's it. I'm just playing in Marvel's sandbox. Rated T for nasty language, violence, and adult themes. If anyone feels the rating is too low, let me know, please.

OoOoOoOoOo

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Clint Barton hates zombies.

It's worth mentioning that he didn't _before_ - stuff like that didn't bother him in the slightest - but now he squirms just a little at the thought of mindless killing machines, and resolutely pushes aside the distinct feeling of discomfort crowding in on him when he awakes gasping and panting from the newest nightmares added to his already nightly haunting, disturbingly real dreams about unthinking undead.

In his dreams, they snarl and snap at him, soulless eyes boring into his as their decaying fingers dig into his flesh, smearing their blood with his.

In his dreams, they bleed a glowing blue.

Clint comes awake with a start and immediately feels for the hunting knife under his lumpy pillows and nestlike mass of blankets, sliding the long blade from its sheath, and he folds his compact body onto the edge of the bed with his taut forearms braced on his knees and he trembles as the last of tonight's dream slides away into half-remembered fuzziness. He swallows dryly as he realizes he can't recall details, just the clinging sense of horror left over in the nightmare's wake that something about his dream has left him terrified and he doesn't know what it is.

He can't remember, and that scares him even more than the stupid dream.

Clint moves to the windowsill with easy grace, because he knows trying to sleep now is useless and he doesn't want to dream about zombies. He perches easily on the ledge and looks down at the busy city; there's something to be said for Stark Tower and its fantastic view. The city doesn't sleep, and neither does he so much any more.

The hawk has been awake for days, the snatches of restless napping he gets not enough to recharge his exhausted body for long. At least saving the world (after first endangering it, and he thinks again about those damn zombies) has earned them all a bit of a respite; Clint knows the limits of his body, and he knows that his reserves are too low. A part of him gratefully and tiredly welcomes this knowledge, that the next time he's called out he might not be fast enough to save himself, but a tiny, persistent voice deep in his mind tells him not to be such a coward and that Tasha will kill him in horrible ways if he dies on her.

He shifts, winces. Bruises that should have already healed are still livid against his pale skin, tucked out of sight under the long sleeves of his old white Henley, and his left knee, painfully wrenched, is reminding him that he shouldn't just take it, shouldn't accept it, shouldn't _**want**_ it, that letting his fellow (former?) SHIELD colleagues trap him in dark spaces and pummel him senseless isn't justice, _**isn't**_ what he deserves.

He can't keep up the façade though, because he knows he _**does **_deserve it.

As he sits, the tired hawk can feel his eyelids sliding shut, but he jerks awake and calmly assesses the smooth metal grip filling his palm, twisting the blade in his hands and trying not to think of mindless, remorseless, _fucking unfeeling_ monsters that bleed Tessaract blue.

Clint closes his eyes, and digs his knife through his pajama pants and into the skin of his thigh. He's been doing this since he was _recalibrated_, since he started dreaming about zombies, and scattered and hidden across his body are the marks. Clint bites the inside of his cheek and inhales swiftly, and opens his eyes to survey the damage.

No glowing blue. Just warm, normal red spilling over his thigh, soaking into his worn flannel pants.

Not a zombie.

Not any more.

He sighs in relief.

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It was originally a one-shot, but I think there's potential here for more if anyone is interested? It's my first time playing with the Avengers, so I'm a little nervous about it. :)


	2. Chapter 2

The Muse totally hijacked this one-shot and took it in a strange, angsty direction. That being said, please let me know what you think!

Super thanks to Dsgdiva and TheeKozakura for reviewing! And thanks for the favorites and follows!

This chapter contains language, language, language. Just a head's up!

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

He thinks that the idea of a so-called "Avengers Tower" is just fucking stupid, but since he refuses to show his face around official SHIELD property unless necessary and Clint Barton no longer exists in the world outside SHIELD, he stays in Tony Stark's Tower of Wonders and spends his abundant free time exploring the ductwork and training centers - gyms, an indoor range, a dojo. Because of all the space and the awkward "everyone getting to know each other" stage they currently exist in, it's really strangely easy to avoid his fellow - Clint sighs, and wonders why he has such a bad attitude about this - _Avengers, _because they're also all trying to settle into their new lives of being public heroes and not solo acts any longer.

Except him.

Even when they fight as a team, he's alone. Perched atop a building somewhere, hidden behind a dirty window, whatever. He's alone, while they fight together, while they watch each other's backs, he watches theirs, always far enough away that if he happens to be _compromised_ in any way, he isn't able to hurt them before they realize what he's doing.

Not again.

He can still feel their reservations, their hesitation when he's around. The archer doesn't blame them, though - after all, he _**had**_ gone fucking-Loki-apeshit and shot up the helicarrier. And almost taken out Natasha. And gotten Phil kil…

Clint swallows hard and pushes the rest of that thought into the deepest, darkest corner of his soul, and this is really an amazing feat because all of him is so fucking dark he's surprised there's anywhere left to store this shit, but hide it he does because if he thinks about it he literally wants to tear the skin off his body in ragged shreds of loathing.

_So don't think about it,_ he tells himself simply.

The archer hears clattering below him as Tony and Bruce meander towards the labs, and Tony raises his voice just enough for Clint to know that Tony knows that he's there.

"More like a nasty little _**hamster**_ than a hawk, if you ask me, running around in the vents and shit … "

Clint doesn't want to grin but he does, the briefest slash of white teeth in a face that has almost forgotten how to make that simple movement.

The hawk taps his fingers idly against his knee, and wonders how he's going to fill this day since he's pretty sure he won't be getting any calls from SHIELD today. He's knows they're biding their time, watching him, _observing_ him, waiting to see if he fucks up again.

So's he.

He's bored.

Sometimes when they're out he cooks, and Pepper smiles at him beneath her halo of shining hair and compliments him but he suspects she sees the shadows beneath his eyes because he can read the pity in her expression that makes him wants to snarl and slam the knife point-down into the cutting board, but instead he smiles tightly and offers her a taste of whatever shit he's conjured up and she smiles because it's good, it really is, and who'd have thought the hawk could cook?

He'd just gotten tired of starving one day, is all. So he'd learned to cook.

Today he's jumpy and restless and it's not unlike any other day but he doesn't feel like cooking so he takes himself off to the range - his first choice anyway - where he can pretend the familiarity of his bow will quiet the whispers in his head.

He knows it won't though, and he's not disappointed. Still, the archer runs callused fingers through the fletching on his black arrows and _fuck_ as he does he hears the _zip!_ of an arrow as it hurtles through the air and quietly buries itself right in the neck of a guard unfortunate enough to be in Loki's way and _oh fucking shit_ another guard is down and all he needs is an eyeball and there are screams but they're conducive to the mission so Hawkeye ignores them, maybe even smiles grimly in satisfaction that he has accomplished his Goal and won't his Master be so fucking proud …

This time the screams aren't in his head. This time the screams of rage tear from his throat, roaring frustration into the silence, and the hand clenching an arrow is shaking so hard the fletchings are vibrating. Clint drops to his knees, retaining just enough presence - or absence - of mind to slowly and carefully set his bow to the side, then he slaps his hands on the mat, the shaft of the arrow biting into his palm but he doesn't care, he just screams. He screams himself hoarse and hopes to God that _**this time**_ something will change. That _**this time**_ the terrified tension that hasn't stopped roiling in his gut for weeks will finally just snap and it'll all come out and he'll have a fucking good cry or whatever he fucking needs to do to feel human again. This can't be all that he has left: hiding from his "teammates," letting SHIELD agents use him as a punching bag, making up fake smiles and crêpes for Pepper.

He has no voice left; he lowers his face to rest on his hands, sweat making them sticky as his close-cropped hair brushes the mat.

_Please, God_, he thinks.

_Please don't let this be it._

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	3. Chapter 3

Thanks! Your comments mean a lot and inspire the Muse!

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

A heavy, steel-toed boot thunks into his unprotected flank, and he grunts lowly but recovers easily, just a little winded. They're still working through their initial excitement at the opportunity to inflict vigilante justice, so they're a lot sloppier than they ought to be; even from his face down position on the fucking _floor_ he can smell the alcohol on them. He can tell that they're still taking care, though - his assailants are SHIELD-trained, so they know how to inflict damage without sending him to the infirmary where too many questions that might lead to an investigation would be asked.

No one would believe that Clint Barton is this clumsy, this often. At least, not any more. Not since he's fast enough, agile enough, _good_ enough to defend himself now.

If he wants to.

He rolls onto his back, gasping, as the same boot hooks him under his now-protesting side and flips him, slamming his shoulderblades against the storage room floor and sending a smattering of protests throughout his abused body. This is the second time they've come after him this week; they're persistent, he'll give them that.

Clint listens detachedly as fists and boots strike his unresisting body, and he swallows back the considerable pain to hisses and grunts. He's taken far worse from people he hasn't directly affected, so he feels justified in allowing people who were once his brothers- and sisters-in-arms (in name now only, never again in spirit) whose lives he _**has**_ scarred to take what small bits of vengeance they can to ease their own heartache.

It's wrong, but it makes a twisted sort of sense to Clint, whose entire life has been one jacked-up mess of disappointments, betrayal, and spectacular fuckups. Just when he thinks he's going to be okay, something happens; not little somethings, either, no, but things like having his brain hijacked by a vengeful god, and being beaten to a fucking pulp and left for dead by his former mentor.

So he lets them get their hits in and he mostly doesn't even bother defending himself. He just has a few rules.

First, he only lets them take him by "surprise" if Tasha's nowhere in the vicinity - even better if she's out of the state or country, which has been happening frequently lately and is also a deliberate move on SHIELD's part to isolate and observe both of them. It's okay by Clint, though, because even with Tasha things are awkward - well, _**he**_ feels awkward; she's been rock-steady for him despite his despairing moodiness, and he lo… he's _grateful_ to her for that. But he'd never get away with _this_ (a half-healed gash reopens under his assailants' efforts and he feels warm ribbons of blood slide down his hip beneath his jeans) if Tasha even _**suspected**_ something like this happens to him now on a consistent basis.

His second rule is that essential body parts go unscathed, by which he means eyes, hands, shoulders … anything related to that which is really his best useful quality: his aim. He persistently and easily deflects any attempts to damage those areas by snapping _**their**_ fingers until they get the message. Assholes.

The word must have gotten around, because nobody tries to fuck up his livelihood anymore.

The archer steadily ignores the muttered taunts this particular threesome feel brave enough to toss his way; either they don't care if he recognizes their voices even muffled by their masks, or they correctly guess he knows he deserves this and won't say a damned thing anyway. They mock him and he rolls his eyes: he's heard them all before, usually in his own head, so whatever these morons have to say slides off him like summer rain in Waverly, or the thin rivulets of crimson leaking from the multitude of cuts and abrasions littering his once tanned skin.

"_**This**_ is the hawk we always hear about? The one who doesn't miss?"

"Yeah, well _**I**_ heard he was just a circus freak!"

Ouch. That one stings worse than his kneecap jerking out again. But it's true, so he ignores it and hopes they finish up soon. Yes, he's earned it, but he also doesn't like groups of people, whether they're pummeling him or just want him to join in movie night.

"Freakin' psycho killer," snaps the third voice above him, and he knows they've seen the footage of his attack on the helicarrier - everyone has. Hell, it's probably required viewing for all new recruits now, fucking Compromised 101, with your host Clint Barton.

They seem to be winding down, eventually losing their interest in attacking an unresisting victim. He never says a word to any of them each time they beat him, and their frustration clearly shows. _Good_. They obviously wish he were more entertaining - _get the fucking freak to perform!_ - but he's above that and he ignores them. They taunt, they sneer, they belittle, but he expects it so he ignores that, too.

What he doesn't expect - but should have - are the next words to follow, accompanied by a vicious and til now unprecedented kick to the head that whips his neck to the side and leaves exploding starbursts across his eyes. He hears crackling static and for a moment the archer is terrified _**and**_ pissed off that they might have damaged his hearing aids - those things are fucking _expensive_ - but in the very next second he wishes they _had_ because the words that reach his ears go all the way to his heart and squeeze it in a choking clench that leaves him gasping in shock and sorrow.

"_**That's**_ for Coulson!" one of them snarls angrily.

And something inside Clint snaps.

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	4. Chapter 4

Thanks to everyone who reviewed/favorited/is following, and especially to _Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul_ for such a great review! I've noticed these chapters are getting progressively longer ...

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Natasha Romanoff is worried.

Of course, 'worried' for her means outwardly an almost imperceptible tightening around her bright eyes that no one but Clint would even notice. Her insides, however, feel like they've been drenched in freezing water, spreading tingling, frigid numbness throughout her limbs and making every thought struggle to the surface slowly, coated in ice.

She's standing in Clint's empty room at Stark's, and she knows instinctively that something is _wrong_. She can't put a finger on it with her thoughts so weighted and sluggish, but there's something off, an out-of-place aura that doesn't belong in a space that Clint inhabits.

Natasha pivots in a measured circle, looking for the answer, but the laughably little that he keeps in the spacious room provided by Stark - a small footlocker and two weapons cases beneath a bed made with military precision are all Clint owns - is still and untouched, providing no answer to the puzzle plaguing her.

The assassin clenches her fists in frustration. _Damn it, Clint._

Natasha is just returned from a quick little assignment SHIELD certainly didn't need _**her**_ for; she tosses her red hair in a way some might say is arrogant, but she knows is just confident. She'd handled it without a complaint though and in fact is back early, mission completed and hopefully a little less red dripping from her ledger.

Her first thought was to check in on Clint - he's been rough and distant since the Chitauri invasion, and she knows exactly why: Clint's struggled with self-esteem issues long before he'd spared Natasha's life on a dirty street; being manipulated by Loki - not too different yet very much so than all of the other people he's been manipulated by in his life - has wrecked the shit out of Clint, and Natasha passionately hates SHIELD right now for purposefully keeping them apart. They're punishing Clint, yes, and she wonders while already knowing the answer is also _yes_ if Fury is punishing her, too. She knows he saw her single-minded focus on retrieving Clint, everything from constantly checking Clint's image on the screens in the control room to her pointed interrogation of Loki.

Fury saw, and he does _**not**_ approve.

But Natasha doesn't care. Fury can think what he wants about how she feels about Clint; she already knows. The Black Widow isn't sentimental … but she's _attached_ to the archer in a way that if she puts words to she's afraid she'll lose him.

But she already has put it to words, hasn't she? And worst of all, she'd said it to Clint himself:

She's _compromised._

And Fury knows it.

The assassin also suspects that the director is still extremely bitter about Clint shooting him - Hill won't even glance at the archer any more - even if it was while under Loki's influence, and even though Clint _could_ have dropped Fury with a kill shot he'd somehow retained enough control to aim into the director's Kevlar vest instead.

But Clint had still been turned, and that's why they're leaving him to rot in his misery and sending Natasha on goddamn _errands. _

Natasha stands in the empty room, black thoughts swirling around her as her crimson-painted lips curl in a sneer. _Fuck them_, she thinks. _Fuck them all. _And she thinks that when she finds Clint she'll tell him that if he wants to leave tonight, they will. No more of this goddamn SHIELD bullshit, just the two of them against the world.

She gets a tense call from Stark, shaking her out of her dark reverie. Stark's tapped in to as much of SHIELD as he possibly can be, and he greets her cheerfully though there's a tight undercurrent of tension in his voice: _hello, welcome home, and there's something going on in Fury's office she should see - would she like to join him in his lab?_

She leaves Clint's room with regret and takes the elevator downstairs. She's been awed from the first time she'd set foot in the space that is so uniquely Stark at all the _everything_ about his lab; Natasha Romanoff has never had much, and she quietly admits to herself she might be a little starstruck at the amount of _stuff_ Tony Stark possesses. He admits her to the lab and she enters, the tension in her stomach tightening even further.

Stark is sprawled comfortably in a chair at his desk, drink in hand, and he greets her with a jerk of his head and a knowing smile at her off-duty jeans and tight t-shirt and places a finger to his lips, indicating the monitor in front of him with a tilt of his chin. She wonders for a second just how many cameras Stark's managed to plant around various SHIELD bases of operation and how exactly he got one into Fury's office, but her attention is arrested by the action unfolding on the monitor screen.

Fury's at his desk, the ever-present Maria Hill beside him, and even though Natasha isn't physically there she immediately senses the rising anger in the air, barely checked rage threatening to boil over. Three SHIELD agents stand by the director's desk, clearly just returned from a visit to the infirmary as they are all sporting injuries of varying degrees of severity. The one speaking - Natasha doesn't know or care to know his name - is nervous, his words stumbling and falling from stuttering lips.

" - was Agent Barton, sir … we … we recognized him from the pictures…"

Fury's eyebrow lifts, and even against the unspeakable fear Natasha finds is winding its cold way through her gut, she bets to herself in grim amusement that the poor agent is pissing himself right now. Stark glances at her quickly, then refocuses his attention on Fury, who is leaning forward, forearms braced against the desk, and he says slowly, calmly,

"Let me get this straight. You're telling me that Agent Barton attacked you three, unprovoked?"

Natasha's heart drops to her feet like a stone. Stark shifts beside her, muscles tensing, but says nothing although the fingers of his right hand come up to tap a distracted tattoo against the arc reactor firmly embedded in his wiry chest, a nervous gesture that Natasha tries to ignore.

Onscreen, the agent's eyes drop to the floor. "Y-yes, sir." Natasha's fists clench as he adds, somewhat hesitantly, "He was trying to commandeer a car, sir, and … sir … there's something else…"

"Yes?" Fury grinds out, leather jacket creaking as he leans even further forward; he's half over the desk by now and extremely frightening to behold. The trio's apparent spokesman almost squeaks as he mutters, "Agent Barton's eyes, sir … they were … very _blue_, sir. Inhumanly so."

Stark's gaze flies to Natasha's in grim shock but the assassin's mind is already racing ahead - and back - to thoughts of Clint's mind and body hijacked by Loki and goddamn it this _**cannot**_ be happening again. The sense of wrongness she felt earlier in Clint's room she can now put a name to, and she doesn't like the label that surfaces in her thoughts: _compromised._

"We have to do something," Stark says quickly, and on the monitor they can already see Fury demanding more information from the operatives Clint had sent to the infirmary and Hill's barking into her communicator and Natasha and Stark know that there is no second chance for Clint this time, and Natasha tears her attention away from the screen before the orders damning Clint can fall from Fury's lips.

"We have to find him," Natasha snaps, wondering how the hell they're going to accomplish that - unless they get Bruce to try and locate the energy readings again, and Stark nods, already out of his chair.

"Track down Thor," he orders on his way out of the lab, calling for JARVIS. "Find out Loki's status. I'm going to get Banner."

Natasha _almost_ listens to his directive, but instead she snaps over the comm for Steve to locate Thor and Loki, because she's already heading off to check out Clint's roosts in the city since JARVIS is politely informing Stark that Agent Barton's whereabouts are unknown. She _**needs**_ to find Clint first, needs to see if the agents were telling the truth.

Because as much as she knows it'll tear her apart if Clint is compromised, she also knows he won't survive it. It's just a question of what will get to him first:

His own guilt...

... or SHIELD.

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Want to see what happened to Clint? Please review! :D


	5. Chapter 5

Hey! Special thanks to reviewers DevinBourdain and Nico Matt for reviewing the last chap - apparently they're the only ones who wanted to know what happened to Clint. too bad. :( Well, this post is for you! :D Thanks!

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Clint doesn't know how long he's been walking.

He's aware that his feet hurt, that his body is actually one big fucking bruise right now - or maybe fresh bruises overlaid atop a month or better's worth of bruises and slashes that sort of maybe tried to heal at some point but were mercilessly denied and cruelly reopened. His dislocated knee is like liquid agony, stopping his breath in his clammy throat, his knuckles are scraped raw and bloody, and his head is throbbing painfully; there's stickiness where he touches his cheek curiously, and his questioning fingers come away streaked red.

At this point, Clint notices that he's actually _**really**_ bloody all over; some of it's his, a lot of it's not, and he thinks he's probably in deep shit. Actually, he _**knows**_ he's in deep shit, because - even though it was provoked - he'd finally just snapped and kicked the crap out of the SHIELD bastards beating on him. A small part of him thinks grimly, _No, __**that's**__ for Coulson, motherfuckers, _because there was no way in hell his handler and friend would have **_ever_** appreciated or tolerated Clint allowing anyone to pummel him at their whim, no matter how deserved a misguided Clint felt it was.

And that's something Clint has always needed Phil for. To pull him back from the edge before he falls in, before all of the demons and guilt he's accrued in his fucked-up life fucking eat him _alive_.

And now that protective tether is gone forever, and it's all fucking Clint's fault.

Stark Tower looms in the distance - _Avenger's Tower_, he corrects himself dramatically, a hint of the grim battle humor he's known for still struggling to shine through the widening cracks in his sanity. The tower is growing smaller as his trudging feet keep walking, too set in their own aimless path to allow even a token protest from his brain to register that he's certainly not doing himself any good wandering the streets of Manhattan in the middle of the night. The archer does let the thought surface that he doesn't like being on the street: it's too exposed and he's already raw and vulnerable. Despite his stiffening muscles, he easily swings himself up a drainpipe so he can travel nimbly across rooftops and catwalks, his aching frame somehow still sure-footed and agile.

He walks until at some point his exhausted and battered body finally gives in and Clint stumbles and folds to his knees in a collapsing heap, slowly and gracefully. The hawk is nothing if not beautiful, strong.

_My precious hawk … _

If Clint could forget he would, but the words slither through his mind as he hangs his head and lets his thoughts wander disjointedly. He thinks he remembers a time when he used alcohol to escape but now it doesn't seem _enough_ to forget slender fingers coasting across his bare back and a lilting, cultured voice murmuring mocking orders he can't do anything except obey.

Clint buries in his face against his shoulder and chokes on a ragged sob that forces its way past his throat from deep inside.

Erik Selvig knew what he was doing. Erik Selvig put in a fucking _safety switch._

What did Clint Barton do?

He'd done whatever the fuck his master wanted, including murdering innocent people and readily spilling every secret he'd ever been physically and mentally tortured and scarred for but still kept.

_And_ let his master rape his soul and fuck his body.

_No fucking safety switch __**there**__, Hawkeye_.

Another haggard sob escapes from the black fist he's been clenching his emotions in since they were returned to him and Clint curls atop the heap of discarded trash he's crumpled onto; it's not really a nest, and it's disgusting and it smells, but he doesn't care. He's _thinking_ now, something he's taken great care to avoid lately, and even though the barely-left rational part of him warns that this is a mistake, that he shouldn't be here in his dark thoughts alone, the hawk lets his mind run wild, pulling him down into blackness.

He thinks about his brother, he thinks about trust.

He thinks about Tasha, he thinks about devotion.

He thinks about the Avengers, he thinks about loyalty.

He thinks about Phil …

… and he can't think at all anymore.

It's too much. It's too much to shoulder that _one_ death. The others he could _maybe_ bear, could possibly eventually accept that it was Loki's influence guiding his hands on his beloved bow and that he is somehow redeemed from their deaths by the simple virtue that _it wasn't really him_. _He wasn't in control of his mind. The devil made him do it. _

But not Phil. He couldn't let go of Phil's death, because Phil, more than anyone else Clint could think of, _**deserved**_ to live. And Clint … Clint should fucking be dead already, long taken to the grave by sins too grievous to forgive.

But because Clint had been weak, because Clint had _heart_, Phil had died and Clint had been instrumental in the agent's death.

And _**that**_ knowledge is crueler than anything Loki or Clint's fellow SHIELD agents can do to him.

OoOoOoOoOo

Review please! It only takes a minute and I promise I appreciate it. :D


	6. Chapter 6

Thanks very much especially to reviewers - I appreciate your time! You keep the story updated, believe me. Thanks also to those who have favorited and/or are following!

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

The hawk is extremely cold. And damp. And miserable.

And, for one of the few times in his life, _uncertain._ Clint's exhausted, beaten, worn out, and unsure.

If he'd had his cell phone on him, he could have checked any of the several messages a too-calm Tasha has left for him, telling him to call her immediately. There's even a snarky text from Tony waiting.

But Clint doesn't have his cell, as far as he knows Tasha isn't even **_in_** the country, and he can't fathom a reason Tony would want to text him, unless one of the cleaning bots got stuck in a vent again and needs to be retrieved.

What he _**does**_ know is that he's a little shocky from blood loss, and the fading part of his brain that's still functioning rationally is warning him that hypothermia might be setting in - maybe he has a concussion, too. He's pretty sure his face is still bloody from that kick to the head earlier, and he might have fallen asleep for awhile and that certainly doesn't help, either.

Clint also figures he's really not dressed to be outside on this crisp September morning - _**is**_ it morning? - because it's still dark out but it _**feels**_ like morning. When he'd put on his jeans and black t-shirt yesterday, he hadn't realized he'd be running away in them; he'd figured it'd be another dull day of angsting and hiding in the ductwork and waiting for SHIELD to either decide Hawkeye had gotten his shit together and give him an assignment or just cut him loose.

But it hadn't been that kind of day at all. It had actually turned out to be the day that Clint Barton had had enough of the crap his fellow agents were intent on giving him. It hadn't been a breakthrough, or an epiphany, or a blinding revelation. He'd just had enough. If they wanted to pummel him for _**his**_ sins and errors, fine, he could accept that. If they thought they were beating the shit out him for Phil's sake, well, they didn't know Coulson at all. So Clint had _stopped_ them, and then he'd just started walking, leaving the agents in a tangled, moaning heap. He'd walked away from the Avengers, from SHIELD; not permanently, just long enough to try to clear his mind and figure out exactly who Hawkeye had become, and who he needed to be again.

He probably should have commed Fury that he was running away, but at the time he hadn't given it another thought.

Clint shrugs. They probably won't even notice he's gone.

He looks up as the low thrumming of a SHIELD helicopter sounds overhead, and Clint sighs as he wonders what menace they're searching out this time without even realizing it's him they're looking for.

The archer stifles a grin. He's running away. For some reason, the thought is fucking hilarious, and he thinks that maybe it's just funny to him because if he weren't laughing, something much, much darker would take over, and he can already feel the shadows that have crept into his mind and staked their own territory there. Thoughts of Phil, and Natasha; older, harsher memories he wished he didn't remember. They're all there, burning brighter and much closer to the surface since Loki had amused himself by digging through Clint's brain to pull out every memory the hawk hated and despised and feared, and laid them bare before the archer's terrified eyes in an attempt to keep him under some sort of control.

The god of mischief had certainly had a field day with all of the jacked-up shit in Clint's mind to play with. Memories long buried and mostly forgotten were pulled out and exposed, and when Clint thinks about them, he can't believe he hasn't gone completely batshit _**before** _now.

OoOoOoOoOo

The hawk jerks awake, barely realizing that he'd fallen asleep again, but he doesn't think it was for long. God, he's **_cold_.** Clint carefully rubs his hands up and down his arms, mindful of bruising.

He can't seem to think clearly; the mere effort of stringing coherent thoughts together is exhausting. He needs help and he knows it, but the only person who comes to mind is Tasha, and she's off in some shithole doing grunt work for Fury. There's no way in **_hell_** he's going to go crying to her to save his sorry ass; it would ruin the foundation of their relationship.

He has no one but himself, so the archer rouses himself from the pile of garbage he'd made a nest out of and pushes himself to his feet unsteadily. Clint's surprised by how much effort it takes to stand, and he wobbles a little - a _**lot**_ - on his bad knee once he's finally up.

Despite his shivering it only takes him a minute to bypass the locked door leading inside the small building of cheap apartments he's perched on. Shuddering and increasingly disoriented, Clint lets himself in, moving silently through the hazy yellow glow of the hallway lighting until eventually he finds a door with light shining through the frame and he knocks on it, and maybe because it's early, or maybe because he looks like shit the couple he's inadvertently woken are not pleased to see him. The archer's fragmenting mind is trying to comprehend what's happening, and his teeth are chattering which makes it hard to concentrate; the woman takes pity on him but the man says _absolutely __**not**_ and Clint just slides down the wall outside their door helplessly to rest his butt on the carpet while the man stands over him menacingly and the woman gives him an apologetic look as she phones the police.

The archer tells them he was mugged and that's why he doesn't have a wallet, but the man is still suspicious and Clint can't blame him because this is New York and weird shit happens here all the time. It's like a fucking bad guy magnet and apparently now a prime destination for domination-hungry aliens; probably because the Avengers and the X-Men and all other sorts of caped and tighted superheroes live around here and most bad guys stupidly want a challenge right off instead of taking over some Podunk town in the Midwest or Alaska or some shit and working their way up from there.

At this point, the thought makes its slow way into Clint's muddled brain that maybe he should tell the couple _**he's**_ an Avenger and that would make things better, but a weak giggle slides past his teeth and he knows instinctively it's not going to help, because who the hell would recognize Hawkeye even if he weren't half-dead and hypothermic? He's not a god or a green rage monster, and he doesn't have a crazy-recognizable suit like Tony or Steve. Hawkeye is the guy who hides and tells the actual superheroes what to look for. He _**likes**_ being the guy you don't remember passing on the street.

So he doesn't say anything, just glances up tiredly when the police arrive and ask him question after question; he hears the woman say he'd said he'd been mugged and Clint thinks the officers can tell he's disoriented and really cold and maybe he should ask for help because the hallway has started fading at the edges and Clint's pretty sure it's not supposed to do that.

Clint struggles to his feet and the officer in charge tells him to take it slow, to be careful, and Clint tries to obey, but when the officer tries to help him by setting a hand on him _just so_, something in Clint's subconscious panics and before Clint realizes what's happening, his hand is stinging and the officer is cradling a broken nose gushing crimson spatter and glaring at him murderously.

The archer opens his mouth to apologize, but even that pathetically weak spike of adrenaline has sapped all that he has and his knees buckle as another officer strikes him from behind in swift retaliation. The wobbling hallway suddenly turns into dark shadows latticing across his vision, and Clint decides that maybe closing his eyes might be a good idea after all.

Some time later, Clint wakes up in a room easily identified as a hospital unit, and his wrist is manacled to the bed. A pained-looking man dressed as a doctor is standing by his side and asks him gently who they can call to vouch for Clint because the phone number he'd deliriously murmured to them when they'd asked who to call for him is unavailable.

Clint realizes when the doctor carefully repeats back the digits he had given them that **_Phil's_** is the number he gave for his emergency contact, and with this knowledge comes the confusing realization that something warm and wet is slipping down his cheeks and he figures it's blood; he reaches his free hand up to check and is surprised to see clear moisture settled on his callused fingertips instead.

Fuck.

He is so _alone._ And messed up. And he really wishes that Tasha were here, even if she'd kick his ass for wanting it.

The doctor pats his shoulder awkwardly and maybe adjusts whatever is flowing into his IV because Clint suddenly feels incredibly sleepy again and although he wants to fight it, he just gives in.

OoOoOoOoOo

Hmm… not too much angst, I hope … I just like to balance out the whump that inevitably follows. lol. next chap… should we check in with the rest of team? Or see what kind of trouble Clint gets into _now_? Please review! hopefully the story isn't dragging too much or at all. :)


	7. Chapter 7

RL whumped the Muse's ass this week, but let me just say that your comments definitely help to kickstart the beleaguered writing process, and for those interested in this little story that means an update today and one tomorrow also (because it's no good to leave Clint on his own for too long, trouble ensues…)

Thanks for the favorites/follows, and thanks especially to lunarweather and Trigger for their reviews of chapter 6, and Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul for reviewing so faithfully. Cheer to you!

OoOoOoOoOo

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

They're sitting in a tense, tight circle in the lounge area of Stark Tower, the space where they had cornered Loki at last after Hulk had smashed the dazed demigod into the floor. The irony of meeting in this room is not lost on Natasha.

One of their own is missing, and whether he believes he belongs or not, they're going after him.

Steve's posture is as ever ramrod straight in the firm armchair he's chosen, handpicked for the sole reason that Steve hates the appearance of slouching, slumping, or looking anything other than _at attention _at all times. It's a quirk Tony loudly swears he'll break Captain America of sooner or later, and Natasha knows that Stark's persistence will indeed eventually wear Cap down. It's a quality that simultaneously amuses and frustrates her, and a part of her thinks with an almost longing for her partner that Clint and Stark would really hit it off well if they had the inclination to try.

But Clint doesn't do _friends_ or _people_ at all, not anymore, not since he was about eight, she knows, so the assassin tucks that thought into a corner of her mind far away from the light of day, next to the barely-there dream of a little home with sunny windows and a life that's almost normal.

Steve's clear ice blue eyes are fatigued, and they can all see how much Hawkeye's disappearance and the reports from SHIELD are weighing on their team leader. He remains rigid, though, alert, as he snaps off briskly, voice heavy, "What do we know?"

He looks at Natasha questioningly, and the fiery redhead answers immediately, her own tone rasping and rough as she relays the news that's burning every nerve under her skin.

"We have the SHIELD agents' report of Clint being back under Loki's control…" The assassin's gaze narrows dangerously as she adds darkly, "But we also have Thor's assurances that Loki remains under strict confinement in Asgard and is incapable of using his powers to even control a fly."

Stark leans back in his ridiculously overstuffed chair, the picture of ease but his fingertips clench white around his ever-present tumbler; his mouth pulls down into a frown as he voices the obvious:

"So our little tattletales are liars, are they?"

Natasha's face is a cold mask, fury etched into living stone. "So it would seem," she utters lowly, and everyone present immediately realizes what this means for said agents once Barton is securely returned and the Black Widow shifts her focus to those responsible for the manhunt for her partner. Steve shifts uncomfortably.

"But Fury isn't taking any chances, I gather?" Bruce questions, his perpetually soft voice drawing the other men's attention away from the hypnotic image of living, simmering retribution that is the redheaded Natasha Romanoff.

"Not this time," Natasha says, equally soft, and a heavy silence follows. No second chances. They find Hawkeye first, or the archer doesn't make it.

"Any way we can track Barton?" Steve finally asks, and Natasha shakes her head.

"He didn't take anything with him; even his phone's still plugged in."

"Wish I'd known that _**before**_ I texted him eighty-seven times," Stark murmurs disgustedly.

"So SHIELD shouldn't have an advantage, either," Bruce continues hopefully, pulling his glasses off and pinching the bridge of his nose wearily as he glances at Natasha sitting next to him on the low couch for confirmation, but it's Stark who answers:

"Right, except they've got way more manpower and the ability to be tapped in practically **_everywhere_,"** he mutters blandly. "They've already got choppers out; it'll take 'em an hour maybe to find Feathers."

"We can't let that happen," Natasha hisses, and Stark glances at her sharply while the others look vaguely uncomfortable at the normally unflappable assassin's unraveling control.

"Calm down, Natasha," Tony says, and an odd look crosses his face as he mumbles, "You know, that was _**supposed**_ to be a nickname, like 'Boris and Natasha' from Bullwinkle, but it doesn't really work since your name _**is**_ Natasha…"

Stark's voice cuts off in a squeak as a small dagger he didn't even see her throw buries itself in the soft padding of the chair next to him, a warning and a sign at how very near the edge the Widow actually is. Natasha rises and moves to the large window overlooking the rooftop where she'd helped Selvig shut down the portal, and her slender fingers barely graze the glass as she looks out; her gaze is sharp, but Steve recognizes the helplessness sinking her shoulders.

Steve's lips press into a thin, tense line as his brain processes what he's seeing, and as his gaze meets Stark's he realizes that the other man has already reached the same conclusion. It isn't just Clint who's been having trouble adjusting these past few months: his partner is having trouble coping without him. If they lose Barton, SHIELD might as well write Romanoff off, too.

Natasha looks out over the city lights, burning bright despite the falling dusk, and she knows that despite what Stark says if Clint doesn't want to be found, they won't find him. She _**has **_to believe that.

But if he wasn't compromised, then what the hell is he _**doing** _out there?

_Come on, Clint, _she thinks desperately.

_Where the hell __**are**__ you?_

OoOoOoOoOo


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you, thank you Audrey Whyte and Nico Matt for reviewing!

Based on other fic around the site, I'm cautiously dropping the rating back to T, but if anyone has any issues with the new rating, please let me know. thanks!

OoOoOoOoOo

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Clint drags himself back to consciousness, blinking and sighing and muttering away nightmares that he couldn't escape with the drugs weighing him down. He's slept more in the last few hours or so than he has in months, partially due to whatever is flowing liberally through his IV.

He feels the cold metal of a handcuff strapping his wrist to the bed and he's glad he didn't wake up screaming like he sometimes does; the archer's afraid they'd tie his legs and other arm down too if he starts thrashing and shouting obscenities at the faces and places that haunt his dreams.

Groggily Clint blinks away the last of the blackness, and as his brain slowly wakes up to join the annoying prickles dancing across his too-long inert body he realizes with some dry amusement that it takes him a minute to figure out where he is, because for Hawkeye, waking up shackled with an IV stuck in his arm has never necessarily meant he was in a hospital.

Usually, he's not in a hospital, and **_usually_** something Very Bad to about to follow.

But a hospital it is, and his chart is within reach so Clint snags it and glances it over. There are a lot of words on it detailing the unpleasantness that has happened to him lately, but he skips over things like _gouges_ courtesy of his nightly zombie checks and _scarring_ in certain places thanks to Loki - because really his whole body is one giant fucking mess so what do a few more scars matter? - and he settles on something safer, like _hypothermia_. Apparently, he _**had**_ managed to reach hypothermic levels with his aimless meandering around.

_Good for you,_ _buddy_, he congratulates himself. _Clint Barton never does anything half-assed!_

This amuses the archer and he smiles, a slight lift of the corners of his mouth that turns into a wince as it pulls at bruising along his jaw. Clint reaches up to touch the tender skin and his wrist jerks to a stop, restrained by metal pinioning him to the uncomfortably hard and narrow bed. Clint looks at the handcuffs in bewilderment for a moment; they really need SHIELD-grade restraints to keep this circus freak in place, and since the hospital doesn't have them Clint's out of the cuffs before it can really register to his still-tired brain that someone thought he needed them in the first place.

Clint pushes his thick blankets aside and wobbles unsteadily to his feet. He frowns heavily at the draft of muggy air swirling around his bare thighs, and finds his way to the small bathroom.

The archer emerges a short time later back into the oppressive humidity of his room, and realizes that although he's still tired and slightly disoriented he's not so cold anymore and that's a good thing. Really, it's the best thing he has going for him right now, because he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror while he was finger-brushing his teeth and _holy shit_ does he look awful. Clint sort of wonders how the other Avengers _**haven't**_ noticed something is up with him because he really does look like shit and no normal, healthy, **_sane_** person would look the way Clint looks right now.

Clint sighs heavily. Maybe that's supposed to be his revelation. Maybe he's supposed to have an epiphany standing here alone in an empty hospital room, battered and bruised and barely back from catatonic, that he needs to open up to his teammates and make them his _friends_. Maybe he should stalk into Fury's office and tell him that _dammit he's fine_ and to just give him an assignment so he can fucking **_prove_** it and they can get past all this bullshit pussyfooting around and just get back to work ridding the world of really bad guys and girls.

Yeah.

Those are some pretty big maybes, and none that Clint really feels up to tackling right now.

So what the fuck is he supposed to do?

Clint sighs, and tries to convince himself that working on those _maybes_ is exactly what he needs to do, needs to find a way to end his days of useless emptiness, and the place where his team is may as well be the place he starts.

_So, back to Stark's Tower of Wonders, then_.

It's not a thought the archer's overly excited about. _Nervous_, maybe, is a better word because Clint's never made friends, except for Phil; it wasn't like he went to school or has had any semblance of a _normal_ life, so how's he supposed to know? He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, wonders if he's supposed to bring them something, like beer or a pie or a gerbil or some shit.

The archer gives up and grabs his jeans, neatly folded on a nearby chair with his t-shirt, and dresses carefully. He's gingerly lacing up his Chucks, ignoring the multitude of protests from his notched and complaining body, when he hears noises in the hall. Clint doesn't always know how he does it, but something triggers in his mind that the approaching footfalls are **_not_** friendly, and he needs to be somewhere else before that door opens and whoever chained him to the bed makes their entrance.

The window opens enough that he can slip out, and Clint smiles slightly at the rush of chilled dusk air against his face. He shivers without his jacket, which sucks because he **_just_** got warm again, but he's out before he can give it another thought, and Clint closes the window behind him so his means of escape isn't immediately obvious - because only a fucking lunatic would be out on a ledge nine storeys up - and sets off for Tony's, moving nimbly across the narrow space.

Clint doesn't know yet that he won't make it back to Stark Tower tonight, or tomorrow night, or even next week. SHIELD has just a few more resources at their disposal as they search for him, and the archer has pissed off a lot of his former colleagues.

But for the moment Clint allows himself a tiny gleam of hope that he can move on, at least a little; that that's what Phil would have wanted and what Natasha _does_ want, and that sometimes it's not a big, shocking event that reminds you that you need to change your life.

Sometimes, it's just getting the courage to start.

OoOoOoOoOo

Please take a minute to review if you can! I appreciate it!


	9. Chapter 9

Thanks very much to DevinBourdain, AlwaysABrandNewDay, Bibliophile109, MalB, NicoMatt, Saela (here is some Natasha for you!), twinchaosblade, Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul (Slipping now contains 786% more whump thanks to you!), DelektorskiChick, and J Loves JS for reviewing - so much so, that I should have the next chapter up tonight or tomorrow. :D

And special thanks to discordchick for multiple reviews in one sitting! I really appreciate it!

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

_Clint doesn't know yet that he won't make it back to Stark Tower tonight, or tomorrow night, or even next week. SHIELD has just a few more resources at their disposal as they search for him, and the archer has pissed off a lot of his former colleagues. _

_But for the moment Clint allows himself a tiny gleam of hope that he can move on, at least a little; that that's what Phil would have wanted and what Natasha __**does**__ want, and that sometimes it's not a big, shocking event that reminds you that you need to change your life. _

_Sometimes, it's just getting the courage to start._

OoOoOoOoOo

Natasha's sense of unease has tripled.

The assassin admits she's been more on edge since Clint had suffered so awfully at Loki's hands; the archer hasn't been himself since, hasn't been the partner she's been with for years, and it's wearing her down little by little that the one person she trusts implicitly to have her back _no longer exists_, buried beneath layers of pain and guilt that he may never struggle out of.

She's checked - twice - all of Clint's usual roosts: here at the Tower, nestled around the city, the SHIELD base. The Widow's angry and disturbed to see that all his usual perches and hiding places at the base are covered in settled dust; clearly, Clint hasn't been around SHIELD lately and she wonders what's been going on with him while she's been running around doing Fury's bidding. Of course he hasn't been comfortable at SHIELD; he never would have agreed to Stark's knowing and deliberate offer of a room otherwise, because _normal_ Clint would have smirked and rolled his eyes at the offer to stay in the swanky, cluttered, crazy-decked out Stark Tower.

And Natasha's hatred for SHIELD grows as she thinks about how awkward things must have been for her partner lately as colleagues he'd grown up around now eyed him with a mixture of loathing and pity.

Natasha is forced to accept that Clint is MIA. It isn't the first time, and he hasn't been dispatched to hostile territory - in fact, Hawkeye hasn't been assigned _anything_ since the Chitauri, Tony had reported grimly as he'd studied the classified SHIELD data scrolling across his personal laptop screen.

So she returned to Tony's to wait it out, to listen for the reports from the team as they scour the city and from SHIELD that Tony's still hacked into. She wants to believe they'll find Clint, but knowing that he walked out of the SHIELD base under his own power, _left her_ by choice, and simply disappeared isn't doing anything to buoy the false sense of hope Natasha's unwittingly trying to create to shove down the wretchedness boiling inside her.

Clint's bed is cold but she's stretched across it anyway, twirling his abandoned knife between her long fingers. If she'd been around more lately she'd have sooner thrown the weapon across the room and into the corner than touch it, because she'd know that this is the instrument Clint's been using to dig into his flesh every night to remind himself that he's not crazy.

Natasha doesn't care for the way she feels right now, and as the assassin unwillingly accedes to the unfamiliar sense of terror bubbling in her stomach, twisting it into tight knots, she wonders, not for the first time, if she's let herself get in too deep and she should just bail out now. Leave the team behind and get back to the basics of being the Black Widow.

But that's a Dark Place, a place of sorrow and shame and pain, and she thinks that that's where she would still be, if Clint hadn't once made a decision with staggering consequences for both of them.

To say that Fury had not been happy with Clint for bringing in the Black Widow was an understatement. It was _**months**_ before the archer received an assignment that wasn't in some hellhole part of the world.

But Natasha will be forever grateful.

The assassin is curious with herself for a moment, curious that in these moments of fear, of gut-wrenching uncertainty, her fallback instinct is flight. It hasn't been this way with her before; the Black Widow doesn't run. The Black Widow _perseveres._

Natasha wonders, staring up at the ceiling, if this is how Clint feels, if she's channeling her partner since he isn't here to be his normal, broody, dark, _wonderful_ self. If the Hawk runs because he can't stand having his wings clipped.

If the Hawk _ran_ because his wings were clipped.

Natasha swallows hard, her heart speeding up to thud anxiously in her chest. It's an odd analogy, thinking of Clint like that, like an actual bird of prey that fears cages and confinement. But it suits him.

Natasha's lips press into a thin line. Clint's missing, and she can't stop thinking about how _weak_ it makes her feel. Is this how a helpless parent feels for a sick child, when they can't do anything but hold them and listen to their cries? Is this how a lover feels when left behind? Unbidden, the old adage that it's better to have loved and lost than never loved at all scurries across her mind, and Natasha's thinned lips twist into a snarl.

No, it's fucking _**not**_.

_Love makes you weak. Love is for children and fairy tales._

Natasha thinks again that she should move on. That it must be better than _this_, than the waiting, the heartache - no, not an ache; actual heart-stopping, _wrenching, tearing_ pain that is slowly consuming her, making her breaths short and sharp and painful as she waits dully for word of her partner_. _

This is too much. Too complicated.

_Calm yourself, Natalia, _the Black Widow soothes, and almost without thinking, the assassin rises from Hawkeye's bed, still clutching his knife; she goes to her own room and reaches for the go-bag she always keeps ready and slides the knife inside along with some cash from her locker and her Widow's Bite bracers.

She's out the door almost before it registers that she's moving, just walking, much like Clint had done barely three days before … _has_ it only been three days? Or has it been six goddamn _**months**_ in the making, six months of watching Clint destroy himself from a distance because she's been too busy with SHIELD to stop and fucking help, to do anything but let this worry build until she, like Clint, has become almost another person entirely.

And now Clint's gone.

And the Black Widow needs to find herself if she has any hope of surviving.

She can do it.

It won't be easy, but she can.

Sometimes, she knows, it's just getting the courage to start.

OoOoOoOoOo


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks very muchly** twinchaosblade and discordchick for reviewing!

Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul - your moment has arrived. At least the beginning of it. lol

Bibliophile109 - Everytime I say 'Hawkeye' around the house (which is a really embarrassing number, I have to admit), my husband accuses me of saying 'Hot Guy.' lol ... I think you've triggered the Muse.

pushing up daisies - I had no idea who Hawkeye even **was** when I was dragged to a midnight screening of The Avengers; I thought he was just another bad guy. boy, was I glad to be wrong! Thanks for your review, I really appreciate it!

Thanks too for the favorites/follows! Because you are all so awesome, as a token of thanks I present the next chapter - I wish I could do more to thank you for noticing this crazy little fic and for the genuinely well-thought comments and reviews. You guys are amazing!

OoOoOoOoOo

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Clint's Chucks hit the ground lightly, gracefully, even though he's bone weary and trudging. His weary body is reminding him that he's pushed it _too damn far_ lately and he needs to get his act together; even so, he feels a little better, a little less resigned, _maaaybe_ even a little more hopeful than he has since Phil died, since those fucked up few days with Loki where even the meager pitiful scraps of familiar orderliness in Clint's life got sent straight to hell along with the archer's mind and sanity.

As he draws nearer to Tony's Tower of Awesome Wonderful Amazingness (which is beginning to sound like a circus attraction in Clint's mind, and this makes him smile just a little), he thinks about Natasha, and if his plan of Moving Forward should involve telling her anything about those hated days, if that might ease even a little the burning knot of guilt that's been consuming him for months.

_Nothing_, he ultimately decides firmly. _She doesn't need to know __**anything**_**. **He's moving forward; there's no need to take those two - or twenty - steps back by rehashing…

Clint absently scratches at the close-cropped sandy hair above his collar awkwardly. Natasha doesn't need to know his shame, his agony, his humiliation at being Loki's personal lapdog. Fuck, he wishes _**he**_ didn't know. But because Loki wanted to torment him, because Loki _despised_ the archer for fighting his control, Clint _does_ know, because Loki liked to wake him up just when he was at his most vulnerable, his most abused, his most _defiled_, and laugh at his horror. And just when Clint would have crumbled from the realization of what was happening, the sapphire scepter would touch his chest again, and the hawk's eyes melted back into streams of Tessaract blue as he was returned to the terror of just _existing_ while another used his hands, his skills, his body mercilessly.

_Oh, shit_.

Clint realizes that he's trembling; it's not from the cold. _Forget it, forget it, forget it!_ he demands of himself firmly, but he's shaking so hard the usually graceful archer has to reach out a hand to steady himself against the chilly brick of the closest building. Clint wraps his other arm around his middle reflexively to ward off the iciness that refuses to dissipate because it's coming from within him.

He shouldn't have let himself think about Loki.

Clint drags his eyes away and up and sees Stark Tower; he's staggering closer but he wishes he were already there. This little adventure has been fun, _thanks_, but Clint's tired of flying Fucked Up Air and he's ready to just go back to Tony's, plant his butt firmly in a chair, and wait for Tasha to return so they can maybe finally sort out his jumbled up self. He _needs_ to feel his bow in his hands, _needs_ to get his life back.

He doesn't know that Natasha has already gone, and that in a few minutes it wouldn't matter if she _**had **_still been waiting for him.

Clint pushes off the building and resumes. He's almost there. The archer wonders if he _should_ have brought the team a pie, but does a pie really say _hey, I'm sorry I'm so fucked up but can I still join the club?_ Clint's not sure.

A whisper of displaced air ghosts the hair at the back of Clint's neck but it's all he needs.

The archer spins instinctively to face the two men suddenly looming at his back; Clint's hand is already closing around the wrist attached to the thick fingers reaching for him - Clint _twists_ his grip sharply and hears a satisfying _crack!_ as bones snap. The palm of his other hand slams against crunchy cartilage and Clint can make the number of noses he's broken in the last few days two.

_Shit, shit, shit_. They've been waiting for him.

He's not that far from Tony's. It's Right. Fucking. There. He could probably shout and JARVIS would hear him. Actually, that's not a bad idea, because more bodies are spilling from the shadows and even though Clint loves a challenge, he's been neglecting himself far too long and he's still fast, still strong, but six-to-one aren't good odds for the lithe archer right now. Clint opens his mouth, willing to try, but a beefy muscular arm hooks around his throat, cutting off his voice and his air and his shout dies in a strangled whisper. The archer feels the pressure increase as his body starts moving; he's being dragged like a fucking _toy _into the shadows of the alley because obviously the mostly deserted street even in the middle of the night is no place for whatever these assholes intend for him.

_Plan B it is_, Clint thinks, bringing both heels down hard on the SHIELD-issue boot behind him, and Clint likes his Chucks but he really, _really_ wishes that he were wearing _**his**_ boots; one, for their greater mass than his canvas sneakers, and two, mainly, for the knife he keeps sheathed there.

But the Hawk is swift and calculating, and still manages to break a few of his assailant's toes as he impacts at just the right angle. For _some_ reason, this only enrages the mini-Hulk further, and spots are starting to blink in Clint's vision as the grip around his larynx tightens. A few agents are taking potshots at the archer's unprotected ribs and another is approaching from the front; Clint scrabbles his fingers into the meaty forearm cutting off his breath so he can lift his legs off the ground and propel them into the man closing in on him, sending the fucker staggering off to the side in a gratifying and somewhat amusing pinwheel of flailing arms and legs.

Clint grins grimly. He's weakening, but he's nowhere near done. The archer tenses, ready to lash out again, when a familiar voice cuts through the roaring in his ears.

"Barton! Stand down!"

Hill.

Obediently, Clint ceases his assault though his body still quivers in readiness, and Hill steps into his line of vision.

They regard each other quietly for a heartbeat, Clint's body still jerking reflexively at his limited air supply, and he wonders where the hell this is going. Hill looks sad, just a little - they've known each other by sight for years - but more than that she is angry, seething, determined. She is another person who is _hurting_ because of him. Clint knows she'd take a bullet for Fury in a heartbeat.

But she hadn't been there to take Clint's bullet for Fury.

He watches her stonily as his body gasps and spasms, sees her nod and turn to walk away. Clint almost doesn't register the bullet that slides into his left side, followed by one that turns the already dirty blue of his jeans crimson across his thigh. He doesn't hear them, really, because of the silencer, and it takes a minute before he can feel the agonizing blossom of pain because his brain is already oxygen-deprived and the spots in his vision are growing thicker, coming together to wash out his world in a haze of greys.

Clint's body slumps against his will, and he spares the thought that this is just stupid-ironic to happen now, and _Tasha, I'm sorry_, but he thinks the Avengers will take care of her, they seem pretty decent all around, and Clint really doesn't want his last thoughts to be of Tony so he focuses on Natasha's fiery red hair and soft skin, and sparring sessions that ended in a tangle of limbs and laughter shared only between the two of them.

OoOoOoOoOo


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you reviewers **DelektorskiChick, Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul, Nico Matt, DevinBourdain, lunarweather, Bibliophile109 (I am definite agreement about the eye candy part *siiiiiiiiigh*), discordchick, twinchaosblade, and Willow Mellark! You are awesome to review and I appreciate it!

Thanks for the favorites/follows!

**OoOoOoOoOo**

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Clint drags himself back to consciousness, but it's like swimming through a murky haze of disjointed images and colors and _fuck_ it really _**really**_ hurts, and he knows his eyes aren't struggling to open because _he_ wants them to but rather because whoever owns the hand that's twisting in his short hair painfully _wants_ him to.

Clint's head is a masterpiece of agony; different flashes and hues of reds and greys and white-hot starbursts take their impatient chaotic turns splashing across his retinas, painting a spattered canvas of torment that his entire body enthusiastically participates in joining in.

The left side of the archer's body is on fire. Clint thinks it's _**maybe**_ because he's been shot there.

Twice.

Once under his rib cage, and once in his thigh; if Hill or whoever wanted to make sure Hawkeye wasn't going anywhere, they'd picked a good way to do it by incapacitating fully half of his body. Well, that, and also tying him to a wooden chair in an empty, bare-walled room in a ridiculously clichéd and right now extremely unnecessary way, since he's also been asphyxiated, managed to contract hypothermia, and been beaten multiple times in the past few days. Clint doesn't actually have much of an inclination to do anything right now other than curl into a ball and pretend he is somewhere else entirely.

This week has _**really**_ sucked for Clint.

Somebody sneers at him but the words don't make sense, garbled and nonsensical through the pounding in his head.

_You know that? _

_Is that what you know?_

He hears himself reply, sounding weak and exhausted, muttering words he's pretty sure his brain hasn't asked his mouth to say. But this _**is**_ a lot like when he'd woken up after the Loki _thing_, only Clint doubts Natasha is here to reassure him in her practical, no-nonsense way that it wasn't his fault.

Clint knows that it was. And he's pretty sure whoever's trying to wake him up thinks that it was too.

Rough fingers plow through his hair again and Clint twists his head away.

"Stop it," he mutters, softly irritable; understandably, he's not thrilled about being touched. In response, the hand snags in his hair, deliberately vicious, and Clint gasps reflexively, involuntary tears springing to his eyes as he jerks against the thick ropes across his chest. The archer blinks, forces his eyes to stay open - he's just now realized they've been closed - and turns to glare at his tormentor, panting the name that comes to his lips. "Elliot?"

James Elliot. He'd been in Clint's training class years ago before Phil had pulled the archer out of general rotation; they'd never been friends, but they'd been decent acquaintances. Once upon a time.

"Barton," Elliot returns calmly, as if tormenting his bleeding and battered former colleague was no big deal, nothing out of the ordinary.

"The hell d'you think you're doing?" Clint rasps angrily, and he decides that his anger is fueled in part by his not entirely welcome discovery that he's still alive - he's _sick_ of this fucking nonsense, and he's not interested in SHIELD's grudges anymore. It was just too damned bad for him that apparently SHIELD didn't get the memo; the fact that someone thoughtfully bandaged his wounds after first shooting him isn't helping his sick sense that something is really extremely wrong, that this has gone far beyond random beatings in empty storage rooms to vent off frustration. The bullet holes in his body prove that.

"What does it look like?" Elliot scoffs back, his finger sliding under Clint's t-shirt collar, digging into Clint's skin painfully as he grins his perfect smile at the archer's visible wincing discomfort. "Keeping an eye on one of SHIELD's most wanted."

This gives Clint pause despite the fine tremors that have erupted under his skin. He's trying to think past the blazing agony in his side, and it's not going very well. "What?" he asks tiredly. "What are you talking about?"

Elliot ignores his questions and heightens the archer's unease by leaning forward to peer into Clint's eyes intently. "How do I know you're not being mind controlled right now?" he asks suddenly.

Clint growls low in his throat. "You don't know what you're fucking talking about," he snaps, feeling cold, tired, _drained, _ready to just be _done_ with this.

"Don't I?" Elliot smirks. "The high and mighty Hawkeye? SHIELD's pet project? Turns out you're just a fucking murderer, pal."

The single door swings opens and Hill enters wearing street clothes; Clint wants to think about how odd this is but he can't _quite_ spare the brain space and Hill gives Elliot a cold look before settling her icy gaze on Clint. She says nothing, though, just stares at him, derision twisting her normally placid features into a vile caricature of the woman he's worked with for years.

They do, however, share a moment of understanding. Clint easily sees that Hill has come to _hate_ him, and the hawk finds, even as he hears the disconcerting sounds of his own blood dripping to the floor, that he doesn't blame her. He'd taken Phil from her, and he'd almost taken Fury - two of the constants in her life. Hell, he was fucked up from losing Phil. Hill was probably near-certifiable.

Oh, _right_, and he'd almost killed _**her**_ too; something cloudy rumbles in the back of his memory, something about a car chase and underground tunnels caving in …

Nope, he doesn't blame her, even as the archer sees the promise of retribution dawning in her eyes. She's just as misguided as he was when he was being controlled by Loki. She's just being controlled by something else.

"Do you know how many agents we lost because of you?" she asks, and even though he does know the number _exactly_, Clint doesn't respond with lips suddenly dry and Hill takes this as a negative. "How many _civilians _are _dead?_" she hisses lowly, and her hand drops to his thigh - the one leaking worrying amounts of blood through the bandage. Clint gives a strangled moan, both at the pain this causes and her words sinking in. "Do you know how long that list is?"

Hill still looks him dead on, and Clint can tell that she doesn't enjoy what she's doing, not really, but she's also savoring the sense of justice this brings her. To Hill, the archer is just another name on SHIELD's list, and she intends to take him out _with prejudice_.

Her face is close to his now, and he very clearly hears the soft accent coloring her dark words.

"Every day you're here is another name on that list," she grates. And when Hill backs away, out the door without a second thought, and Elliot moves forward, his fist already halfway to Clint's jaw, Clint knows he's going to be here for a very long time.

Because he's memorized every name on that list.

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Trying to decide whether to post the Extended, More Whump Version, or the tighter, more concise Theatrical Version. Any thoughts? Let me know!


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **I really wanted to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter, but I just have a minute to post this next chapter now otherwise it'll be at least Tuesday before I update. So thank you for reviews, favorites, and follows, and please review this chapter if you can! Thanks!

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**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

They've gotten smarter, and Clint hates them for that.

At first he'd been able to hear them coming and be ready for them. A small measure of defense but it was something.

And then the fuckers took his hearing aids.

Not easily. Not without major injuries and a hell of a fight. But in the end they'd dug them out of his fucking ears and now Clint is short a sense. Fuckers'll probably gouge out his eyes too one of these days, just for kicks. Fucking assholes.

He's been holding out for days, for _weeks_ now, knowing, hoping, _praying_ that Tasha is going to burst through the door, save his sorry ass, and they can get back to the business of _Avenging_ or what the hell ever they're doing.

But Tasha hasn't come.

None of them have.

Clint knows he should have expected it, should have known that the other Avengers would eventually follow the familiar pattern of his life, because _he's not worth sticking with. _And after all, the Avengers had united in part to stop _**him**_, so they're probably glad he's gone.

But Tasha's absence is harder to explain away.

The needle slides out of his skin, and Clint is already in such a haze of agony he isn't clear if the pinching bite stems in his neck, his arm, his thigh, or even what the intended effect is. The archer doesn't even care at this point.

Clint's counted the days in his head and he knows that he's still got awhile to go. But he hasn't broken. Whatever Hill and these assholes throw at him, he spits back in their faces. He can take whatever they think they're dishing out, with a bloody smirk and a _who do you think you're fucking with?_ thrown right back at them. So far Clint has - he feels _heroically_ - resisted the urge to add, '_cuz I'm fucking __**Hawkeye**__, bitches!_ just to really, _**really**_ piss them off. It was a joke between him and Phil that always splintered their grim façades, except that it was usually the other way around, that hearing _because I'm Phil fucking Coulson, bitches!_ over his comm always cracked Clint up at the most inopportune times.

Like during debriefings with Fury.

God, he misses Phil.

It's funny how people trying to push him brings out the smirking asshole in his own nature - it's one of the many, _**many **_things about Clint that annoys Fury to no end, but as far as Hawkeye is concerned, Phil's the only person _**ever**_ allowed to push him without repercussion. That's just the way it is.

Was.

_Fuck. _

Was.

_**Was.**_

_Come on, Barton, get with it, _he snaps at himself, because whatever the hell was actually in that syringe is setting off a blaze under his skin: thousands of fire ants marching across his body, and he needs to focus on the here and now because _shit-fuck-__**damn**_ this is the worstit's been yet and Clint really needs to draw on his reserves to get him through this one.

Because he won't break.

Because he's fucking _Hawkeye._

He can't see them past the blood dripping into his eyes from a gash across his forehead, can't hear them because they're sadistic fucking bastards that shouldn't even have _known_ about his deafness because normally Fury doesn't let compromising info like that about his agents just slip out. But the archer can sense their movements, and he grins darkly at them with his bloodstained teeth, daring them to give it another shot. Maybe they'll actually kill him this time, and hey, maybe he'll see Phil again, who knows?

They're getting irritated with him. He doesn't give a fuck. He's been through worse.

They leave eventually and Clint wonders if he's free for the rest of the day. The fire ants are still crawling across his skin, but other than that they haven't really done much to him today. Clint's mouth turns down into a frown when he realizes that darkness is sneaking over him, but he shrugs mentally and accepts it, because really, what else does he have to do right now?

Clint wakes up groggily when a slender forefinger drifts down his cheek.

"Tasha?" he sighs. The name slips from his lips before he even opens his eyes and he leans into the touch, barely allowing himself to hope that she's finally here.

_It's been too long, little hawk_.

Clint's frantic eyes fly open, his sigh turning into a hiss as he jerks his face away, tears his gaze from laughing eyes pinning him to his chair more effectively than the knotted ropes keeping him there. The demigod is too damn close - Clint doesn't speak, but his sneakers slam to the floor as he instinctively scrabbles back wildly, trying to put any distance between himself and the demigod leaning gleefully against him.

Clint's successful only in tipping his chair over and the archer bites down hard on a scream as he lands on his side - thankfully not the one with the shoddily tended to bullet holes in it - sending shockwaves through his abused body. Clint's scared, he's terrified, he's trembling, he's … well, he's fucking _pissed off_ at himself actually for reacting this way, but his anger is bubbling so far below his other chaotic emotions that he's not sure he can bring it up far enough to overrule his panicking mind and body.

_Pull it together!_ he demands, ignoring the pathetic way his breath is hitching in his too-tight chest.

_It's so adorable you think you have any power here_, Loki informs him, his smooth, melodic voice echoing in Clint's mind; Clint shuts his eyes so he won't automatically lipread like he usually does as Loki kneels regally next to the shuddering archer; hearing the words in his mind is bad enough, he doesn't have to se the bastard speaking them, too. Clint's fingers work furiously at the knots around his wrists, but his hands are shaking so hard it's difficult to tell if he's making any progress. The archer's black shirt is sweaty, torn and stained, and Loki idly pokes a finger through a tear in the sleeve to tease the corded muscle of Clint's bicep.

Loki's poisonous words rattle around Clint's brain as the demigod leans down to whisper in the archer's ear, his breath gusting across Clint's cheek, his hated voice sounding clearly despite Clint's inability to physically hear him.

_Have you missed me, Agent Barton? Because I've missed you…_

Clint manages to twist his mouth into a sneer, his callused fingers still flying over the ropes even though he has to turn his wrists at an incredibly awkward angle just to reach the knots.

"Yeah, I missed you," he grunts, hating the way his voice is trembling; he fixes his washed-out grey eyes on the demigod hatefully. "But rest assured I won't miss my chance to kill you again."

Loki shivers delightfully at the archer's spirit. _I welcome the attempt_, he breathes giddily, _If it brings you back to me._

Clint's bravado is failing fast; he's not strong enough to deal with _this_, not on top of everything else, but he still manages to mutter, "Then I'll see you soon, asshole. Bow in hand."

Loki sniffs a haughty laugh, a familiar sound to Hawkeye that dredges up horrors still fresh in Clint's mind, hastily buried memories of _when_ exactly he was used to hearing that laugh. _Look at yourself, little hawk,_ are the words sneered at him. _Even if you somehow - doubtfully - survive, you'll never use a bow again._

The mocking words fill Clint with sorrow, pull out a fear he's harbored since his bow helped shape him into who he _is_, but he smiles anyway, his teeth outlined in red and crimson leaking from the corners of his mouth.

"Then I'll bring my knife," he promises acidly.

No other words are spoken; Loki disappears and Clint doesn't know if it was all in his head or not. A broken chuckle slips from his mouth.

It doesn't matter.

Now he has a promise to keep to a demigod.

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	13. Chapter 13

**Thanks very much** Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul, cw151, twinchaosblade, Strawberrywaltz, DelektorskiChick, NicoMatt, discordchick, Bibliophile109, Drought, Lastavica, and Guests for reviewing! Thanks also for the favorites and follows!

**Thanks **to Lomiel for tackling this in one sitting and reviewing as you made it through each chapter. I appreciate it!

OoOoOoOoOo

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

He doesn't like the quiet.

"This sucks," Tony announces loudly, drumming his fingertips on the bar. He glances around the empty space of the lounge and says a little louder and clearer - like he's speaking to a two-year-old - as he angles his voice toward the air vent above him, "Man, this _really_ sucks. I wish we could find Hawkeye so we can get back to work..."

And JARVIS sounds so patient, so mechanically longsuffering as the AI reports patiently, "I've already told you, sir: Agent Barton is not currently located within Stark Tower," that Tony wonders if he should add a little more attitude to JARVIS' programming.

"I know," Tony retorts snappishly, sounding fussier than he wants to; he, at least, has no trouble with attitude. "Worth a try, though."

JARVIS, ever helpful, obligingly agrees. "Yes, sir. And it is more … subtle than your previous attempts to secure Agent Barton's return."

Tony allows a grin as he snags a tumbler from behind the bar, muttering, "It's happy hour _somewhere_…" but his brow furrows as he mulls over JARVIS' comment. "Yeah, I'm surprised those didn't work," he adds thoughtfully.

Pepper breezes from the elevator just in time to catch the end of the exchange and she rolls her bright blue eyes in exaggerated agreement. "You mean the 'lost bird' posters you had put up all over the place and the falconer you offered to SHIELD as a 'special consultant'? _Those_ ideas?"

Tony grin blossoms into a self-satisfied smirk, the momentary amusement on his expression a direct contrast to the dark circles he's irritated to see are becoming a permanent feature under his normally effervescent eyes.

That's right. _Effervescent. _So what? Tony likes the sound of it.

"Yeah, I'm surprised those didn't work; they were a verifiable stroke of genius." He catches Pepper's smile out of the corner of his eye; it's the smile that Tony secretly suspects means she's humoring him. He sees it a lot. "What?" he demands, then raises his eyebrows suggestively. "Would you like to stroke a genius?"

"Absolutely," Pepper confirms in amusement, striding past him to retrieve the planner she'd left on the low table earlier. "The genius just forgot her planner." She looks beautiful and brilliant and Tony, in a rare moment of touchy-feelyness, reaches out almost desperately to catch her hand and pull her carefully to his chest.

"Well, they really pissed Fury off," Tony amends; he's buried his face against her neck and Pepper laughs as she feels him smile.

"I bet," she says, adding with a sigh, "You really should play nicer with your friends, Tony."

Tony stiffens. "_**I**_ play nice," he retorts haughtily, but his tone drops softly and to Pepper's knowledgeable eye she can see how incredibly _fragile_ Tony is right now, and this worries her immensely: a fragile Tony is an unstable Tony, who drinks. A lot.

"_**They're**_ the ones with loyalty issues," he snipes, and when he says this it clicks in Pepper's sharp mind that the problem is bigger than Clint's disappearance... for reasons she has yet to ascertain, the Avengers Initiative means a lot to Tony, and the unravelling of the team is hitting him hard. Tony's reaching for his glass, which never seems to be empty these days, and she places her hand over his both to calm him and to keep him from snatching the tumbler. She's successful only at the latter.

"We may as well not even call this place fucking Avengers Tower since none of them fucking live here anymore," Tony adds harshly, and it's so rare to see him this way that Pepper immediately wants to cancel the rest of her itinerary for the day, and maybe the week. If only she could.

"Tony - " she starts softly.

"What?" Tony's voice is rising sharply, his usually unflappable exterior showing spiderwebbing cracks of vulnerability. "Barton's missing. Bruce is buried in R&D at SHIELD. Romanoff left. And Rogers looks like the fucking Walking Dead because he thinks he can do it all himself … " No nicknames. No jokes. It's a testament to how close to the line Tony actually is.

Tony releases Pepper and drops heavily into a chair. "I did my part," he says quietly. "_**I**_ changed."

Pepper holds him until she regretfully has to leave. Tony grabs his glass and heads off to his lab/office/playroom, knocking back the remaining whiskey in one swallow; doesn't matter, there's another bottle in his lab. The steady stream of alcohol is creating a pleasant buzz in his brain that dulls his almost frantic need for action... he doesn't do reflection, he doesn't do long bouts of internalizing or meditation. He _acts_, and right now there's nothing on the radar that even warrants assembling the remaining fragments of the Avengers - him and Steve. At this point, Tony would even take a flaming shawarma stand to get the team back together.

He might even set the fire himself, if he thought it would do any good.

But he already knows that it won't.

And Tony, who excels at keeping people at a distance, finds that he actually _misses_ having the team frequenting his space at all hours of the day and night. He's actually gotten just a little fond of having them around. Capsicle, broody Hawkeye, humorless Romanoff, the ridiculously beefcakey Thor - all gone, and even Bruce had disappeared deep into the labs at SHIELD, muttering in his soft voice that he hadn't fully discounted the Loki angle because he wasn't sure they could trust the god of trickery to "play fair." A good point.

They're gone, and now the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist is just _anxious_. And worried. And Tony hates worrying, and he thinks about Coulson sometimes, thinks about the bloodstained cards, and he knows that this is just _wrong_. That this isn't how it's supposed to be.

Tony parks himself at his desk; he spends a lot more time here than maybe he should, watching and listening to all the various feeds he's got coming in for news of Barton, Romanoff, even Banner and Steve … Tony hates to think of how many hours he'd spent down here even before Barton had gone AWOL, watching, scanning, hoping for something Avengers'-worthy to keep the team functioning.

He doesn't know when it became so important to him to keep them together - that seems like something more along Red, White, and Blue-Eyes' department - but it is. Maybe it's for Coulson. Maybe it's for him.

It's not because he wants mayhem and destruction.

It's because he's afraid they'll need the practice.

Because Tony is a visionary and has the feeling that the Chitauri are just the tip of the iceberg. And the Avengers _work_. A little shaky, sure, but hell of a first tryout, if you ask him: a crazy wannabe _**and**_ an invading alien army? Oh, and a nuke launched at Manhattan and the nearly-tragic, almost-death of the dashing playboy hero?

And despite it all, they'd _won._

Something from one of the feeds catches Tony's ear, something from a mostly empty SHIELD locker room about a little unofficial fun - well, what the hell? Tony's always ready for fun, _**especially**_ the unofficial kind. He isolates the feed and turns up the volume to catch the details.

As he listens, though, Tony realizes sickly that the furtive agents are definitely not talking about the kind of fun he's interested in - especially since, by their chuckleheaded descriptions of their actions, he can empathize with the subject of their _fun_ from his own time in a small cave in Afghanistan.

Tony sighs, leans back in his chair. This isn't the first conversation like this he's picked up. Barton may be the most visible of those turned by Loki, but he certainly wasn't the only one, and apparently there's a lot of anger swirling around SHIELD right now - and it isn't even coming from Banner. As he has each time before this, Tony reaches for his cell, ready to call Fury and report the vigilantes.

And then Tony realizes that the smallest amount of gooseflesh is crawling across his arms...

… because he suddenly realizes they're talking about Barton.

Tony doesn't waste a second - he's heading for his suit when JARVIS informs him that there's an attack in progress, some jackass trying to make a name for himself, Tony guesses, and then Fury's overriding his comm, calling for the Avengers and that's a fucking joke because he's the only one left, really, unless you count Steve who probably won't get the message til he's done pounding punching bags into sawdust at the gym.

Tony hesitates. He has an actual line on Barton - no fucking way he's going to tell Fury that til he gets the story from Barton himself - but then Fury's voice is in his ear again and Tony realizes that Barton's just gonna have to wait a little longer.

Tony just hopes he can handle whatever this is by himself.

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lol ... see, I'm spreading the angst around.

I've really got my fingers crossed for this chapter - I have a really difficult time writing Tony for extended stretches. He and Clint are the central characters in my next Avengers fic, though, so if you have a minute to review, please be honest with any suggestions you have. Tony's not broody and introspective like Clint so he gives me a little trouble. ;D


	14. Chapter 14

**Thanks to everyone who was able to review the last chapter, and thanks for the feedback on Tony's characterization! I'm excited about the next fic, and also super-excited about the next chapter of Slipping, so please read this chapter (and review if you can) so you're all caught up. ;) **

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**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

It's 5:16 on Wednesday night.

Hill checks her watch, slides her chair surreptitiously from her station. She's finished for the day; the rest of the night is hers. She could go to dinner, or her neglected Pilates class, or even try to get through a few more pages of the thriller that's been gathering dust under her bunk. The fallout from the Chitauri invasion is still taking up a lot of her time, and this whole Barton mess has gotten really out of control. It doesn't help that Stark keeps calling Director Fury day after day and hyping him up about Barton's disappearance.

The thought of the wildly disrespectful, smirking Stark makes Hill's mouth twist in a frown. She hates Stark even more than she loathes Barton.

Hill does go back to her quarters, but it's only long enough to throw on street clothes. She leaves the base, flags down a taxi, and sits silently during the nearly two-hour ride to a crumbling building in a neighborhood that's seen better days.

The SHIELD agent doesn't know why she's here; she personally doesn't have to be, and if they get caught it's not going to reflect well on her at all. But here she is.

Hill shoves some money at the taxi driver and enters the building, an old apartment complex that's been mostly gutted by fire and abandoned. The fading light dances off shards of broken glass littering the floor and Hill ignores the chill creeping across her body, burrowing deeper into her parka. Fall's nearing its end, and winter is just around the corner. There's no heat in the building, but they won't be here much longer.

She trudges up a few flights of stairs and down the hall to a door with faded numbers announcing apartment 564, and she knocks a quiet pattern against the peeling paint before sliding keys methodically into four different locks bolting the door shut.

There's an agent on the other side of the door that Hill doesn't recognize, but the young woman snaps to attention when Hill enters.

"Sir," she nods respectfully and Hill nods back, wondering how far out of control this is going to get. She needs to let her agents know to stop telling their friends, that Barton isn't some kind of free freak show. The more people who know, the greater their risk of everything going to hell and someone like the director actually finding out. Hill suspects the only reason Director Fury doesn't know yet is that he's busy trying to track down the now-missing Romanoff _**and**_ keep the rest of the Avengers busy _**and**_ he's still trying to track down leads pointing to Barton's disappearance, which are all carefully sanitized by Hill.

And he's doing it all without Coulson to help him.

It's a lot for one man to carry, and Hill knows too that Fury's under pressure from the Council now that his dream team has fallen apart after he fought so hard for them. If she didn't hate Barton so much, she'd see him returned to SHIELD just to ease some of the director's worry and shut Stark up.

But she won't do that. She can't.

Hill nods to another agent posted outside the bedroom door, unlocks the locks, and enters quietly.

Barton is slumped in his chair, head sunk low against his chest. Dark smudges blacken the papery skin under his closed eyes and he - rightfully - looks frail and exhausted. If not for the multicolored rainbow of bruising and crusted blood marring his face, he'd look just like he had when he'd led the attack against the helicarrier.

Barton looks worse now, though, and the fact that she's partially responsible isn't lost on Hill.

Hill's fists clench as she steps closer and Barton somehow senses her presence because he immediately tenses, the muscles in his arms cording, and without even lifting his head he starts mumbling broken words around a thickening drawl, and Hill leans in to catch the words that make her stomach turn in revulsion:

"Hawkeye … 091867 … "

She's noticed he's been doing this more frequently, sliding into memories or talking to people he's conjured up in his head, and Hill knows Barton can't take much more. He'd already been injured when her specially collected team had ambushed him in the alley near Stark's, and days of repeated abuse were taking their toll. Hill also knows _**she **_can't take much more. She'd thought she'd scored a hit on the bastard by mentioning the casualties he's responsible for, but the first day, when she'd held his chin in her hand and whispered the name of the agent at the top of the list, Barton had finished the name for her and given her every name after that. Her ideal of him as an unrepentant killer had been shaken because suddenly, he isn't an undeserving hero whose horrendous crimes have been glossed over because he'd helped out when the Chitauri had invaded.

He's a man who was punishing himself more than she ever could.

Hill shakes herself from her reverie; Barton's still muttering the basics: name, rank, and serial number, and Hill is almost glad for him in that death will be a release, more merciful than she is, more merciful than the agents who greedily take their turns tormenting their own in the name of what they call justice, and then patching Barton up just enough, forcing food and water on him so he'll survive one more day.

She leaves then, and when she comes back the next day, something about seeing the archer's own black arrows sprouting out of his calf and shoulder make her realize that she won't return again. This is no longer justice, no longer restitution; it's something meant to be both that has slid way beyond its original intent and into something much, much darker.

Barton's barely conscious by this point, and Hill fingers the sidearm tucked beneath her jacket speculatively, wondering if she should just end this now. But her phone chirps and it's Director Fury, announcing tersely that there's a "problem" and he's called the Avengers together but since he doesn't know who the hell will even respond she'd better get back to base and prepare her own response team.

Hill snaps her phone shut, notices that Barton is looking at her blearily and oddly. She doesn't know his hearing aids are gone, even though she's the one who accidentally let it slip that SHIELD's famed marksman is deaf. She ignores him, chewing at her lower lip before sighing and muttering, "If the director's relying on the Avengers, we're all in trouble." Hill doesn't spare a backwards glance as she closes the door behind her.

Clint slowly looks up as Hill exits; he knows she's gone because he felt the vibrations through the soles of his bare feet. He's not quite as bad off as he looks - which is _fantastic_ because he looks like shit, and also, he acknowledges, a lie that he keeps telling himself in his random moments of sanity because he knows he's dying. Their goal is to torment him, so they've been sort of trying to keep him alive, to see just how far they can push the archer's legendary reserves, and Clint hazily wishes _**that**_ reputation hadn't preceded him.

They have access to SHIELD meds and they even feed him once a day or so, but Clint knows he's almost done and he thinks the actually decently-patched bullet hole in his thigh might be getting infected; God knows it's the only part of him that feels warm anymore, since he's missing his shirt and shoes and it's really fucking cold in here.

Also, he's seen Loki three times now, Natasha once, and even Phil, which was oddly relieving because now he knows he's just going crazy.

Clint couldn't hear Hill's phone conversation, but he'd managed to lipread the words "Avengers" and "trouble." Clint sighs, because _he's_ an Avenger, damn it, and if the rest of the team needs him to have their back then he'd better fucking well be there: flawed, human, just about dead Hawkeye.

"Well, shit," he mutters weakly, and sets to work on the ropes around his wrists.

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	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you ver' much for the reviews, I really appreciate it!**

Thanks too for the favorites/follows!

**Author's note: **It's funny; Hill showed up in Slipping because I needed a character who could actually make Clint stand down and that list is slim. The impression I get from her in Avengers is that she sees in black and white and that's it. She wasn't supposed to be evil, just misguided and in way over her head. Revenge rarely turns out well.

**This chapter is dedicated with especial gratitude to Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul. Happy belated birthday!**

**OoOoOoOoOo**

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Everything hurts, and Tony knows he's lucky he's alive.

He swipes at a slice over his ear that's making his expertly-styled hair sticky with oozing blood. He really hadn't been expecting a challenge, but the fact that Fury thinks he needs to call the Avengers out for some jackhole named "The Rhino" really irritates Tony.

He suspects he's really just annoyed that he's the only one who showed up, since not more than a few hours ago he was wishing for _anything_ that would assemble the Avengers.

The Rhino wasn't a problem. But Iron Man _**had**_ almost been taken out by an unfortunate misfire from SHIELD agents called in as backup. Tony doesn't think of the correlation now because he's discovered something extremely interesting - the unlucky agent almost responsible for taking him out was one of Hill's backup team, _**and**_ one of the agents Tony had overhead in the SHIELD locker room discussing the missing Hawkeye - but eventually it'll occur to Tony that the agent's "misfire" might not have been accidental at all.

But right now Tony's focused on the asshole who knows where Barton is, and he's pleased to see that this saves him a step in his hastily concocted plan: 1, save the city; 2, find Barton; 3, rescue Barton. The _**only**_ reason Hawkeye wasn't at the top of the list is that Tony is inexplicably feeling pressure for the Avengers to represent, and if he hadn't shown up, no one would've. Tony already knows the Avengers Initiative is on thin ice, and he's not going to let Coulson've died for nothing.

No fucking way.

Tony's almost surprised to realize that his iron-gauntleted fist is crashing into the agent's face, but it gets an address from the sniveling man and _**that's**_ what Tony really cares about.

The asshole from SHIELD now currently wearing splashes of Iron Man's armor as face paint blew out the Mark VII's repulsor system so Tony's forced to grab a taxi because there's no way in hell he's gonna make Barton wait any longer so he can run home and change. JARVIS is a little shaky too, fritzing in and out through crackling static, and Tony hopes the AI can keep it together long enough to help find Barton. Hill asks him politely if needs a ride, but Tony turns it down for obvious reasons and also informs her snottily that he's sending the bill for his suit repairs directly to SHIELD and they'd better get their big boy wallets out.

Tony's really, really surprised to see that Barton's been a few hours away for _three damn weeks_ and no one could find him. The prodding feeling that this goes really high up in SHIELD is nagging at the back of his neck … or maybe that's just blood from his probably concussion-inducing head wound, he's not really sure.

He's arrived at an apartment building in a neighborhood he's extremely discomfited by; the sheer state of disrepair is a massive contrast to Stark Tower's glistening lines and modern architecture. Tony's psyched, he's pumped; he raises his boot and kicks the door in, AC/DC screeching from his suit speakers and "_Party's over, muthafuckahs_!" booming from his lips.

Unfortunately, there's no one here.

"Well, this is embarrassing," Tony mutters, shutting down the MP3 player as he asks hopelessly, "JARVIS?"

"Lifesigns five floors up, sir," is the prompt response, along with a smug, "You could have saved yourself some fanfare if you'd simply asked me before bursting through the door, sir."

Tony scratches his earlier thought about increased attitude for his AI off of his to-do list.

"You're a peach, JARVIS," Tony mumbles, then, much slower than he would have liked, Tony climbs the stairs slowly and painfully. "I'm too old for this shit," he grumbles, feeling pleased at himself for managing a passable Danny Glover. Damn, he wishes he had a drink right now; his nerves are going crazy as he follows JARVIS' directions to apartment 564 and his hands are shaking.

"Three life signs inside," JARVIS reports through a wail of static, adding quietly, "One life sign is fluctuating, sir."

This time there's no fanfare, no music, nothing. Tony kicks the door in without hesitation.

One agent is immediately visible leaning back in the chair at the table, booted feet propped on in dull surface lazily. The thought that this asshole just _sits_ here while Barton is fucking dying in the other room pisses Tony off, and he fires off a stun shot that leaves the startled agent sprawling in a graceless heap. Tony moves down the hall, heading for the only door that locks from the outside.

"The life sign is gone, sir," JARVIS says gently, and Tony doesn't hear JARVIS' followup warning about someone else entering because all he can hear is his own derisive voice in his head telling him he's too fucking late, and why the hell did he hesitate because now Barton is dead and he could have saved him but he didn't …

He almost makes it to the door.

JARVIS squawks at him as a thick, brawny arm loops around Tony's neck, catching him from behind and hauling him backwards off his feet. Tony gasps and sputters, trying to claw for breathing room and he wonders why he's always taking his damn helmet off.

Clint's dead.

Tony's not going to escape from this fucking gorilla.

_Man, _Tony thinks, _in the movies this would be a great place for a scene cut._

OoOoOoOoOo

Okay, soooooo, this chapter originally ended differently but the length ran long so I chopped it here. It seemed like a good place. lol


	16. Chapter 16

**Okay! **Two chapters posted today, so make sure you read #15 before this one!

**This chapter is also dedicated to Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul; **it's the second part of the previous chapter. :D I've done it before, but I really want to gratefully acknowledge your influence on this fic: your input has made it go far beyond the original draft and I thank you very much. :D

Thanks also to discordchick, Lastavica, Jelsemium, lederra, Bookdancer, olimpia, DelekstorskiChick, Lomiel, and If Only97 for already reviewing chapter 15! You're the best, and it's because of you that I am posting the second half of this chapter already. Cliffhangers are well and good, but Clint and Tony are much, much better. ;)

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Tony's fighting against the crushing hold around his throat; JARVIS is trying to activate something - Tony doesn't know or care what, he just hopes it'll work.

Suddenly there's a popping sound, the pressure disappears, and Tony's watery eyes gradually focus on a bedraggled figure in the bedroom doorway, clutching a handgun loosely in his shaking fingers. Clint's clearly winded from his own struggles - behind him on the floor lies a SHIELD agent with a single black arrow through his heart: the now-absent lifesign JARVIS had reported.

Clint's leaning heavily on the door frame, leaking crimson from a dozen wounds, but he still manages to grin darkly at Tony as he grimly surveys the body of the agent he's just shot.

"Fucker tried to choke me in an alley," he snarls. "I'm not saying he deserves it, but I'm not sorry." He squints at Tony, taking in the disheveled state of the normally unflappable Iron Man.

"What the hell happened to you?" Clint rasps irritably.

"I'm here to rescue you," Tony snaps back, trying to catch his breath, and he realizes it's interesting that 'Barton' became 'Clint' once Tony had thought the archer had died; there's probably something deep in that, but Tony doesn't actually care.

Tony's relieved smile fades as he sees that Barton shouldn't even be standing, let alone talking. The guy is a fucking _mess_, which Tony can clearly see because Hawkeye's wearing his jeans and nothing else.

"It's just you?" Clint growls dubiously, wavering precariously on his bare feet. "Because I'll do what I can, but there are a lot of guys around here who aren't gonna just let us walk out the front door."

"Please," Tony scoffs, but he's really starting to feel the effects of his earlier-sustained concussion; the room is warping in a weird way and he thinks he's going to retch. He looks around frantically for his helmet, as if puking in that is somehow less revolting than adding to the growing grisly mess on the floor. "How do you think I got in? They left you behind, Feathers ... better things to do, I guess."

"What?" Clint looks _affronted, _like this has seriously offended him. "Without having the decency to _**finish**_ the job?" Clint's adrenaline rush is visibly slipping away; a wave of white washes over him, turning his already pale skin a ghostly shade of ivory.

"I can't believe you're upset about that," Tony shakes his head tiredly, and he quietly asks JARVIS to call for Rogers and also get ahold of Tony's impressive team of doctors and have them at Stark Tower within the hour. Knowing what he does now about SHIELD, Tony's afraid to have Clint taken to a hospital, and he thinks Hawkeye will be safer and in better hands this way anyway.

Clint sighs weakly, twisting his bruised body to sag against the wall and he slides down slowly, leaving a red smear in his wake. "This is some rescue," he snarks, somewhat ungraciously. "You just can't round up good help these days."

Tony staggers over to carefully collapse next to Clint. "I'll admit it's not my best," he agrees, peeling off his gauntlets to finally inspect a few of his earlier-obtained wounds with a morbid sort of fascination. Clint turns his head to keep his focus on Tony. "I called Rogers."

Clint smirks at that; clearly he's a little out of it. "Someone to rescue the rescuer?" he asks smartly, and Tony, also a little - or more than a little - out of it, giggles.

"Rescue the rescuer?" he parrots. "And the rescuee?"

Clint's sagging despite his best efforts. "I think that's a double negative," he proffers thoughtfully, "double-rescuing someone. Totally cancels out the first rescue if you have to be rescued during your original rescue. Also I was on my way to rescue _**you**_ so there's that, too." His head drops onto Tony's shoulder and he frowns at the metallic clunking as his skull impacts the iron suit. "Ow," he says in annoyance, and Tony giggles harder.

"'Ow'?" he asks incredulously. "Have you looked at your fucking self lately? You look worse than death warmed over … more like … regurgitated death left on the counter for a week. And I disagree with your rescue theory; I'm totally taking credit for this one."

There's no answer from Clint and Tony thinks he must have passed out, but he looks down and sees that Hawkeye's eyes are wide open and he's blinking slowly. "Hey," Tony says a little louder, jostling his shoulder lightly. "Stay awake."

Clint stirs, glances at Tony questioningly.

"Stay awake," Tony repeats, and Clint nods but his head is already drifting back toward Tony's shoulder. Tony can't tear his eyes away from the glistening gouge in Clint's calf - there's one higher up too slicking his shoulder red - and the thick bandages across Hawkeye's midriff and wrapped tightly around his thigh. Among other unpleasant injuries. There's _so fucking much_ damage that Tony feels an embarrassing stinging in his eyes as he clears his throat and says perkily, "Tell Doctor Tony where it hurts."

No answer again; he looks at Clint, sees that the other man is just gazing blankly and quietly at the door: waiting maybe, for a redhaired assassin that isn't going to come to arrive.

"Hey," Tony says. "_**Hey**_. Are you even listening? Stay with me, 'kay?"

Clint bites his lower lip, his mouth screwing up self-consciously. "Sorry … didn't hear you," he mumbles quietly. He's about to add something else, something that he clearly doesn't want to say, but Tony interrupts him.

"Didn't hear me?" Tony demands worriedly. "I'm practically shouting in your fucking ear! What the hell's wrong with you?"

It's a stupid thing to say, born of frustration, and Tony immediately sees that he's hit a nerve. Open, raw hurt flickers across Clint's bruised face and he snaps his mouth shut tightly, grinding out, "_Nothing_ is fucking wrong with me, Stark." And then his assassin mask slips into place and he forces a grimace that almost credibly works as a topic-changer. "Except what you see, obviously."

"Right," Tony says awkwardly, but Clint's focused on him now, his eyes never leaving Tony's face as Tony tries to ramble on about nothing in particular, until finally Clint's head drops to his chest silently. Tony jabs him hard on the shoulder, knowing Rogers has to arrive soon and he needs to keep Hawkeye awake until then. "Hey," he demands, "Are you with me or not?"

Clint blinks at him blearily, his cloudy blue eyes confused and disoriented. "Look at me," the archer huffs in annoyance. "Do I _look_ like I'm with you?"

Tony smiles a little, but it's shadowed by the worry lines around his eyes. "You make a good point," he concedes. He sighs longingly. "I'll be glad to get back to Stark Tower. You too - Pepper's been fussing about your lasagna."

"The trick is getting the herbs in the sauce right," Clint explains absently, then adds testily, "And I'm not your fucking cook. You have a _cook_ for that."

Tony shrugs. "Women, huh?"

And Clint glances toward the door again, and they wait for Captain America to rescue them.

OoOoOoOoOo

I'm really nervous/excited about the interaction in this chapter, so please if it _**all**_ you made it this far in the fic and have a minute to leave a review, I'd really appreciate it! Reader response to the story thus far would be a nice gauge to whether or not I'll feel confident enough to post the next fic. So please review if you can! :D


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: **Thank all of the faithful reviewers for sticking with this story, and also all the new reviewers who were able to take a minute to comment on especially the last chapter. You are much appreciated, and it totally made my day! Thank you DevinBourdain, Alex Ladona, Strawberrywaltz, Lastavica, discordchick, lunarweather, schniefvieh, Nico Matt, Trigger, ksaan, Krows Scared, Opehlia Lake, Bookdancer, Shazrolane, forestwife, Splashcicle, Jelsemium, Gracie, and Guests. Also thank you muchly for comments on Tony's characterization and the Clint and Tony interaction! The suggestions were exactly what I needed!

**Special thanks** to twinchaosblade for extremely awesomely detailed reviews - I've incorporated one of your points in an upcoming chapter, which will be specifically noted when that chapter is posted. :D

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Steve Rogers is not unaccustomed to feeling guilty.

He's been carrying it with him for awhile - an extremely long while if you count his unintentional seventy-year nap - but the type of guilt he feels every single day is now negated by the new remorse settling uncomfortably over his well-muscled shoulders.

It had started with the disappearance of Barton. For the first few weeks the Avengers, sans the Black Widow after the first couple of days, and Thor, had held nightly update meetings about their progress - or frustrating lack thereof - in locating Hawkeye. After that they had disbanded, more or less, to follow their own leads: Banner to SHIELD's databases and Stark to his labs, and Steve had been left to himself, left with his punching bags and his conflicting emotions.

He'd kept looking for Barton, yes, because the man was his teammate, but also because he didn't trust the agent. It was hard to trust a man you barely knew, and Hawkeye had spent the better part of the time since his retrieval from Loki ghosting around the SHIELD base and Stark Tower and generally not making an effort to be liked _**or**_ trusted. It was easy to write off as a lie the SHIELD agents' story that Barton had been repossessed by Loki, but all they had to believe that was Thor's report that his brother was still contained in Asgard, and even Banner hadn't accepted that as a reason Loki couldn't still be interfering with Barton's mind.

So Steve had decided to do his own research around SHIELD, just as he'd done on the helicarrier for Tessaract Phase Two - at Stark's goading - to see what kind of man Clint Barton was.

He wasn't encouraged by his findings, the little he could scrounge up since Hawkeye's records were mostly sealed, but he had found Maria Hill to be a reluctant source of information regarding her tight-lipped fellow agent, and many other SHIELD personnel were perfectly willing to offer their own opinions and experiences with Barton, some with respect, some with scorn, all with at least a decent dose of fear and awe. The various doctors on base knew Barton particularly well; he apparently had been a frequent though extremely reluctant visitor in the infirmary after his assignments until Coulson had died and Barton had become a shadow.

Anti-authority. Spent time in military prison. Previously a contract killer. Antisocial. Teamed with the Black Widow or worked alone.

But Barton had also had the well-respected Phil Coulson, Nick Fury's right hand man, as his handler, and held numerous SHIELD records, including youngest recruit ever - a record Steve could personally associate with. And Hawkeye was tactically brilliant; even as he'd despised the agent as they'd tracked him and Loki, Steve had been grudgingly impressed by the precision and capability with which Hawkeye had achieved Loki's aims _**and**_ nearly taken down the entire SHIELD helicarrier.

Steve wants to trust Hawkeye. But the truth is, he doesn't trust anyone. The world seems so much less black and white than it had when Steve was growing up, everything blurry-edged now and bleeding grey. People are so … complicated. Agent Coulson had said that the world could use a little more old-fashioned, but when Steve looks around and sees the heartlessness with which people treat each other, the killings, the hatred, the sadness, he wonders what one man, even Captain America, can do.

Steve is exhausted. He truly is a man out of time.

Steve covers a yawn with the back of his hand, forces himself to sit a little straighter. He's been spending his days helping SHIELD agents rebuild Manhattan piece by piece, and his nights searching for Barton. He'd thought he'd had a viable lead with one of the area hospitals, but the suspect patient had escaped and left no trail so Steve had been forced to abandon that route. He'd just tumbled into his bed for the night when he'd received an urgent message from Stark with an address and strict instructions to tell no one of his destination. He'd quietly re-dressed and left his apartment, climbing into the spacious Stark Industries car waiting outside, and steadfastly refrained from fidgeting during the ride.

The soldier's guilt multiplies, the weight of his burden growing with each step as he slowly climbs the creaking staircase of the dim and musty apartment building he'd been driven to. Steve doesn't like feeling guilty. He doesn't like feeling like he could have - _**should have**_ - done more … but he seems to feel that way a lot lately.

It doesn't help that there's so very much to do.

He arrives at the apartment indicated by Stark's instructions and immediately notes that the doorframe is splintered; it's no wonder: Steve counts four deadbolts that Stark had smashed his way through on his way in. He must have been wearing his Iron Man suit, and Steve feels another twinge of regret that he hadn't responded to the call for the Avengers to deal with the Rhino. He should have. He hadn't. He'd been dealing with _**another**_ civilian-related crisis at the time.

There are men lying on the floor; one each in the kitchen and living room. He does a quick check on the figure sprawled by the table and finds a pulse, but there's no need to check the gory corpse bleeding into the dirty living room carpet.

Steve steps through the entryway into the living room and is immediately met with the whine of Stark's lasers charging and the sight of an unwavering pistol trained at his forehead. He raises his hands in his most non-threatening manner, tilting his head cautiously to survey the two men propped against each other and the back wall.

"Oh, it's you," Stark says cheerfully, nudging Barton gently. "Me an' Feathers've been waitin' for you." The shining blue disc in his armored palm powers down as Stark grins happily; Steve peers a little closer and can see that Stark's got a nasty-looking head wound and his brown eyes are glassy - he immediately surmises concussion. From here Steve can see another body just down the hall in the bedroom, and he looks back to Barton as the archer slowly lowers the pistol aimed at Steve's forehead.

Hawkeye is almost unrecognizable under layers of bruising and blood and gauze that's barely noticeable against the whiteness of his skin. His tired, listless eyes catch the clench in Steve's jaw as the soldier surveys the damage, and the agent's fist tightens white around his pistol's grip.

"I'm fine," Hawkeye growls, then jerks the pistol in Stark's direction. "But he's hurt."

"But Captain America is here to rescue us rescuers," Tony interjects, pumping his fist feebly; his eyes are slowly closing as he mumbles, "So I guess we can pass out now, fellow rescuer… yay…"

Hawkeye's watching Tony worriedly, and he glances back at Steve as the solider scans quickly to assess the easiest way to get both men downstairs.

"Get Tony out first," Barton orders, and Steve grunts noncommittally.

"I've got it, I'm here," he assures firmly, and he doesn't add _finally_ out loud though he hears it clearly in his head.

"Good," Hawkeye nods, then closes his eyes and promptly stops breathing.

Steve's breath slams to a halt in his throat as he drops to his knees next to his teammate; his heart is thudding monstrously against his ribs as he feels for the fallen archer's pulse. After a frantic moment he finds it, weak and fluttery, and sees that Hawkeye's chest is barely lifting in shallow, pain-filled breaths.

They need to move.

The urgency of the situation isn't lost on Stark. "I shoulda called more people," he mutters, and he gently pokes at the barely-conscious Hawkeye. "Hey, Legolas, wake up, we gotta go."

"It's okay, Stark," Steve says gently, tilting Hawkeye forward just enough to slide a strong arm behind the man's shoulders. Hawkeye hisses and pulls away and Steve rocks back on his heels in frustration, wondering just how the hell he's going to move the man. Even concussed, Tony sees the trouble Steve's having and pats Hawkeye's arm to get his attention, waiting til Hawkeye blurrily slews his gaze to meet his own worried eyes.

"S'okay, buddy," he murmurs, managing not to slur, "You've gotta let Steve help you." He thinks about the way Clint's been watching the door, and adds quietly, "We have to get back to Romanoff, okay? Let Steve help us."

Hawkeye stirs at Stark's words, his gaze drifting from Tony's face as he breathes the name "Natasha," in a sigh; Steve sees the agent clench his jaw and nod tightly. "Go 'head," Hawkeye says, voice clipped and tense. Steve carefully but efficiently winds his way over the bandages on the archer's left side and under the thick gouge in his right shoulder; it's like going through a damn maze to locate the path that least aggravates the man's visible injuries, and it's another battle to work his other arm under Hawkeye's knees and slowly push himself to his feet with his burden.

The archer isn't a big man, and he feels light and broken in Steve's powerful arms. Steve leans just a little so the blearily watching Stark can hook his armored hand into the crook of the soldier's elbow and haul himself up. Stark shouldn't be stumbling along beside him, but the inventor snarkily waves off Steve's suggestion that he wait here for Steve to return for him with a snappish, "How much time do you think we _**have**_, old man?" and they begin their slow journey downstairs.

OoOoOoOoOo

More about Steve coming up, Captain America fans, so not to worry. Yeah, they all made it through one huge-ass battle together, but I don't think that alone would resolve everybody's trust issues, and Steve has just as much angsty guilt as the rest of them. At least in my head.

And along that note…

**Author's Possibly Shameless Plug (lol): **If anyone is interested, I'm posting an Avengers fic in a much lighter vein; Slipping is pretty dark and a reprieve can sometimes be nice. It's an extremely ridiculous yet also occasionally angsty Clint/Tony/Avengers story about everyone adjusting to life at Avengers Tower. It's called 'Unlikely Housemates' and reader suggestions are definitely encouraged and incorporated - silly little things you want to see, angsty resolution you missed from the movie, Clintasha, not dead!Coulson, protective of Hawkeye!Hulk, Pop Tart lovin!Thor, and any other exclamation point!things that work their way in. Check it out if you like, and let me know via pm or review anything you'd like to see!


	18. Chapter 18

**Thank you to everyone who continues to pm/review, I appreciate your time! Your comments totally make my day and inspire the Muse! :D**

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Steve finds Stark on the roof, which seems a touch ironic to the solider since Hawkeye - who frequents this space more than all of the other Avengers combined - is cloistered inside several floors down, surrounded by Tony's doctors and an enormous collection of medical equipment Steve helped haul in.

Stark's leaning against the ledge, looking but not seeing; his arms are folded over his Black Sabbath t-shirt, and his bare feet are crossed at the ankles. The inventor's radiating an air of melancholy that Steve can't quite associate with the happy-go-lucky playboy he's used to seeing, and Steve almost backs away to leave Stark to his uncomfortable and clearly desired silence.

Something stops the soldier, though, and he moves closer instead to eye the bandage over Stark's ear.

"Concussion?" he asks, shivering a little against the bite of frost in the air.

"Confirmed," Stark nods, but he doesn't smirk or add a smart comment about his ego cushioning the impact; he doesn't even smile. He's so abnormally quiet that Steve wants to shout bloody murder into the night just to set things right.

"What the hell," Stark finally asks softly, "makes people so fucked up that they'd do this? They almost fucking _**killed**_ him, and for what? Revenge? Because they're assholes? Because they _**could**_?"

Steve doesn't point out that Hawkeye still might not make it, that the archer's nowhere near out of the woods yet; that the staggering array of wounds Stark's worrying over may prove too much for the archer who had survived being turned inside out by a demigod.

"You found him," the soldier finally settles on reassuringly. "He's in good hands."

"Yeah. _**I**_ found him," Stark agrees, swinging a dark glare at Steve. "Where the hell were you? Where's his damn _**partner**_?" He straightens from his slouch, his sneer palpable. "Where the hell were you guys when the Avengers were called out? Barton not showing up I can fucking understand, but where the hell were you? Where was the _**team**_ we're all supposedly a part of? I thought we had something after Coulson died, and now this happens and we can't even keep it together long enough to find Barton sooner than a fucking month when he's been practically in our backyard the entire time?"

Stark's really working himself into a fit, his earlier despondency twisting into a much more useful emotion: anger. Steve looks around for Pepper Potts, but he doesn't see the blonde CEO; it's just him and Tony. Steve raises a calming hand. "Stark - "

"No!" Tony snaps. "I don't want to hear it! The whole fucking point is that when one of us needed the others, we totally failed! What the hell! Does somebody have to fucking _**die**_ every time we need to be a team?" Tony runs his hands through his hair in frustration, and when Steve has nothing to say Tony shakes his head resignedly. "Whatever," he sighs; he's bouncing on the balls of his feet, his energy level too high for him to stand still. He clearly hasn't decided what to do next: Steve expects him at any time to hurtle downstairs to check on Barton - even though they'd both been forcefully expelled from the room when it became clear Hawkeye's chances for survival were fluctuating; the only way Tony would accede to this request was if JARVIS could continue monitoring Clint's condition. Stark looks ready to bolt, either downstairs or possibly to search for the rest of his fractured team.

"Any word from Agent Romanoff?" Steve asks.

"Nothing," Stark answers shortly. "We should probably tell Banner and Thor, they ought to know what's going on." He gives Steve a frankly appraising look, and apparently makes a decision regarding Steve's trustworthiness because he adds, "I guess I should tell you the guys in that apartment were from SHIELD."

Steve's jaw drops, and he almost feels sick. Another punch to the gut from the organization that had thawed him out and dropped him into a world he didn't recognize. "What? Sanctioned?" he demands faintly.

"I don't know," Tony retorts, "Not yet," he finishes darkly, and Steve can see retribution on the horizon: if not from the Black Widow, then Iron Man will certainly see it done.

There's something else, though, something bothering Stark on a level deeper than he's willing to admit. "What else?" Steve presses.

Stark's quiet … and then he says, barely loud enough for Steve to catch, "I don't know. I … just … this isn't gonna end well." He looks out, brown eyes unfocused, and admits quietly, "I think the bastards fucked up Clint's hearing. I don't know if it's permanent."

Steve doesn't know what to say to either statement, so he finally chooses to apologize. For anything and everything. "I'm sorry, Stark."

Stark doesn't ask him what he's referring to; he just nods tightly.

"You should have been there," he snaps, and stalks off toward the stairs.

OoOoOoOoOo

Hey! Hopefully the story's not dragging; I haven't written such short chapters before so I look at it being chapter 18 already and I start to worry it's getting too long. Don't want to leave anything out, though; still got a few loose ends out there. Please take a minute to let me know what you think, if you can! Thanks!


	19. Chapter 19

So glad the consensus is that Slipping isn't dragging plotwise; sometimes readers can get a little bogged down in the angst and whump ... thank you very much for the reviews, I really appreciate your feedback - and so does the Muse: look how fast this update arrived! :D

I just watched Avengers again last night ... so sad how worn out and smudgy-eyed Clint looks when he's attacking the helicarrier. Oh, Jeremy Renner, I heart you, your biceps, and your really, really nice leather-clad ass. lol.

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Clint Barton doesn't want to open his eyes.

He can't think of a single good reason why he should.

The world out there is painful, dark, and horrifyingly silent. It's so much safer here in this little haven of his mind, slipping in and out of awareness; there's nothing here to terrify or hurt him, nothing to remind him yet again that once he actually wakes up he'll have to face the reality of who Clint Barton is _now,_ who he's become since he's been taken down one more time by people who had him at their whim and chose darkness instead of mercy.

Clint doesn't know how many more times he can be unmade before there's nothing left of who he is.

It's much safer here. No one can touch him here.

Or so he thinks.

Clint drifts along on a medicated sea of forced drowsiness, though he can feel still feel the myriad of hurts inflicted on him; a burning _here_ that tightens the skin around his eyes, a twinge along _here _that catches his breath roughly, a stabbing poker of pain _here_ that makes him want to retch and choke. He wonders if he'll ever be whole again, even as he knows he won't.

He'd known that before this little adventure, though.

Sometimes the archer feels the pull of consciousness breach the oasis he's made in his mind and he thinks when he opens his eyes he's back in the land of the living, but once when he actually does look he sees Phil sitting by his bedside like the agent often did when his charge managed to get himself injured on a mission yet again.

Clint quickly squeezes his eyes shut; he can't bear to see the familiar worry lines and patient blue gaze staring back at him. The archer supposes one good thing about being deaf is that he won't hear the well-rehearsed and often-delivered lecture on the tip of imaginary Phil's tongue.

God. He can't do this.

"Well, I'm here too, little hawk," Loki interjects, and _right, of course_, Clint thinks; he can hear them in his mind so it doesn't matter if his damaged ears are functioning or not. "If you'd rather spend time with me."

"Not really, no," Clint retorts testily, realizing exactly how fucked up this is that he doesn't even know if he's unconscious - but he has to be, right, if Phil's here?

Loki grins a mouthful of sharp teeth lecherously. "But we always have _**such**_ a good time together, Agent Barton … "

"Fuck off," Clint and Phil say together. Clint flashes Phil a grateful look.

"Language, language," the mischievous demigod chides playfully, then purrs the promise, "I'm never far if you need me, little hawk. Never far," before slipping away.

Phil looks at Clint. "I don't know about you, but I'm glad he's gone," he says, in the bland tone he always uses that Clint misses so damn much it hurts. The archer makes a noise that's clearly a laugh covering a sob, but only Coulson knows him well enough to know that.

"He's never gone," Clint says dully. "None of them ever leave." He tries and fails to hide the fearful look he knows is painting his expression, but he trusts Phil, even imaginary Phil, and God it's such a relief to trust someone right now that he can't help the words that slip past his lips. "I think I'm going crazy, Phil," he whispers.

"Clearly," Phil agrees without hesitation, and Clint's heart plummets. He hadn't even realized he was hoping for a negative. "So what are you going to do about it, Agent Barton?" is the even-toned challenge he's issued.

Swamped in misery, Clint still manages to give Phil a skeptical look. "Oh, I don't know: wave goodbye as it wanders off to parts unknown?" he snaps tautly. "What the hell does one _**do**_ when they're losing their fucking mind?"

Phil eyes him disapprovingly and Clint wants to squirm, but he remembers that this is a manifestation in _**his**_ head and instead straightens, mentally squaring his shoulders defiantly. "What?" he demands harshly. "You tell me, if you fucking know already."

Phil shakes his head. "I don't know," he says calmly. "It's up to you to decide what to do."

"Right," Clint scoffs. "That is so fucking clichéd! Who knew the inside of my head is like a fucking Hallmark card?"

"Clint - " Phil starts warningly, but Clint cuts him off, frustration bubbling, boiling, burning through him, acid corroding his wounded soul further into blackness.

"No! I can't do this! I can't do this one more time! I'm so fucking tired, Phil, I can't … " Clint trails off abruptly; either he's decided this is a ridiculous conversation to have in his own mind, or he's just worn out. Either way, Clint snaps his jaw shut firmly and refuses to say any more. He just wants his bow; he wants to feel it in his hands and remember when he felt okay.

He tries to clench his fingers like he would to grip his bow but manages only a weak curling of his fists that he can barely feel depsite the sweat that breaks out across his forehead from his efforts. Clint forces back the angry tears crowding his eyes - he just needs time, and a few good workouts with Natasha. That's all. Just a little time to feel better.

He'll be using his bow again in no time.

OoOoOoOoOo

Tony's watching; he sees the furrowing of Clint's forehead and the way his callused fingers twitch, weakly frantic, against the blanket over his bandaged thigh.

"Hey," Tony says lightly, but he doesn't expect Clint to answer and of course the assassin doesn't. Tony's doctors didn't gloss over the uphill battle facing Barton, but there's nothing else they can do right now so while all but one of them have gone home to their lives and families until needed again, the single doctor left on call is sleeping the slumber of the truly exhausted in the guest room next door. Tony sits on a small couch he's dragged over to park next to his teammate's bed and watches the shadows darken the archer's face until he can't take it anymore.

"_**Hey**_," he says a little louder, a little closer to Clint's ear. Still nothing. Tony doesn't like this; Clint keens lowly and tosses his head against the pillow, and the archer's expression is open, so vulnerable, that Tony can't bear to see the naked agony there.

He shakes Clint's left shoulder gently and Clint whimpers, just barely on the other side of unconsciousness. Tony really wants to see the archer spring into action: he imagines Clint's eyes snapping open as he draws a hidden knife from God only knows where, balancing lightly on the bed and impossibly healed as he brandishes the weapon at Tony until he realizes it's Iron Man facing him and not one of his mortal enemies. Tony even pictures his own "Oh, shit!" expression as he flattens himself against the wall and proceeds to talk Hawkeye down and then they share a rueful smirk and decide to get on with their damn lives.

None of that happens though.

What does happen is that Clint cries quietly in his sleep as he mutters names both familiar and unfamiliar to Tony, and Tony wishes Natasha were here because he's clearly out of his depth; but then Pepper, beautiful, amazing Pepper slides onto the couch beside him, nudging him over enough that she can gently dry the tears leaving salty trails down Clint's wan cheeks, and with her other warm hand she squeezes Tony's arm, and Tony's not ashamed to say that he's grateful for the contact.

The genius billionaire playboy philanthropist rests his head on the shoulder of the CEO of Stark Industries and closes his eyes, wishing for better days.

OoOoOoOoOo


	20. Chapter 20

Thanks for the reviews/favorites/follows! Please remember reviews are love to authors; we aren't compensated for posting, we get paid in reviews. ;) and reviews don't have to be long, or detailed (unless you feel like it, and those are _**awesome :D**)_ - but trust me, ten seconds of your time to say 'nice job!' makes an author's entire day.

on that note, I really want to thank everyone who has reviewed/will review - your dedication keeps this fic moving; I don't think I've ever posted this quickly on a fic, but your comments make me super-excited to update. Almost 200 reviews is way more than I'd ever expected for this little one-shot. Thank you. :D

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Natasha Romanoff is exhausted, and it's no wonder.

She'd left Manhattan six weeks ago because she'd thought she needed to find herself, needed to remember who the Black Widow is because she certainly _**isn't**_ a pining, worried, _**shell**_ of a person who lets her emotions overrun her because the one person left in the world that she really cares about disappears. She'd been headed down that road and she needed to turn around, to distance herself from her liabilities even if that Achilles' heel was her partner, the man who had saved her life more times than she could count.

The assassin's plan had been simple: she hadn't had a plan. And so it had turned out that _finding herself_ involved visiting nearly every single safe house she and Clint had set up together, and leaving a trail of bodies along the way belonging to anyone who had held a grudge against Hawkeye ever and might have been responsible for his disappearance.

The Black Widow doesn't feel ashamed about the carnage she'd caused: the lowlifes who had tasted her bite were already on SHIELD's list, or would have made it there eventually. They just happened to end up on the Widow's list first.

Apparently, _finding herself_ also meant _finding Clint_. Phil had once told her that she and Clint were two halves of a whole; she'd snorted and waved his comment off as ridiculous sentiment from the closet romantic that Coulson obviously was when no one was looking. They were Black Widow and Hawkeye, and neither of them had time for anything more than that. And then somewhere along the way, somewhere amidst shared moments and patching each other up and quiet words in dark places, they became Romanoff and Barton, and then Natasha and Clint.

He was still Clint, even when Loki tore him apart from the inside out, ripping all of Natasha's secrets from him. He was still Clint when he attacked her, his normally stormy eyes eerily blue and distant. He was still Clint when he was sharp and harsh and hurting from all the guilt he was carrying and she couldn't bring him back because he didn't believe he could come back.

And then her partner had vanished; she'd thought her wounded hawk had finally flown away and it was time for the spider to do the same. Natasha had left, searching for herself and searching for Clint. She hadn't found Clint. But she had discovered a few things about herself along the way:

Natasha Romanoff didn't need SHIELD.

Natasha Romanoff could survive on her own, but

Natasha Romanoff no longer feared attachment, because

Natasha Romanoff missed her hawk so much it _hurt_ every single minute of every day, and she'd realized

Phil Coulson had been right.

Natasha is back in New York now, staring up at Stark Tower because she literally doesn't know where else to go; she's not going back to SHIELD. She needs to figure out where to look next because she refuses to accept the possibility that Clint is gone forever.

Jarvis admits her quietly and she asks him if anyone's awake because it's the middle of the night, and she thinks she must have misheard the AI when Jarvis questions politely if she'd like to see Agent Barton, then, since he's the only one awake at this hour.

Natasha's heart is thudding so hard in her chest she doesn't think she can hear anything over the rushing in her ears. She's slipping through the hallway shadows and reaches Clint's room without a second thought, a hundred demands on her tongue that all fall silent when she sees his space is empty, clearly untouched by anything but Stark's cleaning bots since she'd last been here. A snapped question at Jarvis leads her to a guest room three floors down and Natasha hovers outside the door for a moment, steeling her emotions for the unexpected to come.

Clint's here. He's back. He hadn't contacted her, and she knows he would have known how. He hadn't let her know he was alive. Natasha feels angry, she feels sick, mostly she doesn't want to feel at all so she tosses her red hair brusquely and pushes her way into the room, drawing up short with a hiss as her eyes adjust to the soft lighting in the room.

Because the man in this room can't possibly be Clint Barton.

The man in the bed is frail, wasted, and wan. Clint had looked bad, _exhausted_ when he'd attacked her on the helicarrier - it was the only reason she'd been able to take him down so easily. She hadn't fully realized how bad off he'd been until he'd passed out in his chair in the middle of their impromptu shawarma and Natasha had spent the rest of the night picking glass shards out of her unconscious partner's body and cleaning wounds that should have been taken care of before they'd sat down to eat their damned dinner.

But he'd still been Clint.

Clint doesn't look like this.

There are so many bandages she almost can't tell where they end and skin begins; her hawk's no longer tanned and lithe and makes her mouth go dry when she looks at him: she can hardly keep her eyes focused on the ruined and battered body and the ashen face ringed with dark circles and scattered cuts and bruises. This Clint looks so small, so helpless dwarfed by machines and tubes, that Natasha's face crumples and she can barely remind herself to keep breathing.

She looks away to inhale sharply, snap herself back to awareness, and she realizes it's a glaring measure of how startled she is that until this point she hadn't even noticed the man sleeping on a bed tucked away in the corner: tousled salt-and-pepper hair is just visible beneath a pile of blankets.

Banner.

Grateful to have something to draw her attention away from Clint, just for a moment, Natasha squints to take in the collection of items scattered around the second bed in the room; she sees notebooks of Bruce's scribbles, a set of hand weights belonging to Steve, and the little lights of Tony's laptop blinking lazily in sleep mode. There's also a scattering of half-filled coffee mugs and empty wrappers on the floor and nightstand, and Natasha realizes with a lurch that she's walked into a vigil over her hawk.

Banner shifts in his sleep, nearby if Clint should awake and need him, but Natasha doesn't know that Clint hasn't woken at all, at least not in a coherent state. What she does know is that Jarvis had said Clint was awake, but as she redirects her silent attention to her partner she sees that his eyes are closed. The only indication that this Clint is anywhere near the land of the living is that his right hand, resting on the sheets, is twitching furiously.

Natasha focuses on his rapidly moving hand, and her sharp senses make the connection that Clint is _signing_. His movements are too fast, too jerky for her to read what he's saying, but she catches a few words that intensify the building tension in her body, silent words of pleading and desperation.

Natasha knows there are tears in her eyes, because she now realizes for a certainty that her hawk hadn't left her willingly. Her hawk had been _**taken**_ from her.

She drops onto the low couch by his bedside and lays a hand on his frigid skin cautiously; even though it's warm in the room his skin is like ice and Natasha drags the blanket further up his chest, her breath catching in the familiar feel of him under her fingertips. Her voice, when she speaks, is rough and underused: she's barely spoken in weeks; she's had no need or desire to.

"Clint."

He barely responds, but whether it's to her voice or touch she doesn't know. His eyelids slide back to reveal that his normally bright, determined eyes are washed out and listless; he doesn't look at her, and his hand continues to move.

Natasha wants to say more, but she can't think of a single damn thing to say but his name, so she does again and Clint doesn't respond, refuses to open his mouth and acknowledge her. She isn't prepared for the flash of angry irritation that crosses his expression, and it immediately puts her on the defense. Of _**course**_ she hadn't been expecting him to welcome her back with open arms … had she?

His shaking fingers slow their frantic movement, and Natasha concentrates, catches the unexpected _well, welcome back_ he sketches out roughly. His face is still grim, lined, and he's looking around like he barely cares that she's here, his dull eyes flicking between her and the space near his bed.

Natasha can't breathe.

"Thanks," she rasps out hoarsely when his wandering gaze falls on her, adding quietly, "I've been looking for you."

_Why?_ is the question she's asked.

Natasha is getting a little put off by his blasé attitude, but she later admits that her own guilt is coloring her perspective; she's seen him bad off before and been far more patient than she's feeling right now. Tonight she's being crushed by her overwhelming and conflicting emotions. "What the hell kind of question is that?" she demands in a harsh whisper, mindful of Banner nearby.

A confused look crosses Clint's face and he shakes his head slightly; she's reminded of when he was trying to get Loki out of his mind. She knows him; knows he's trying not to panic. "Why -?" he croaks, and his voice is worse off than hers so he grits his teeth furiously and finishes with his fingers: _Why can't I hear you?_

Natasha doesn't realize he wants to know why he can't hear her in his head, doesn't realize that he's hallucinated so many different manifestations of her that he won't bring himself to believe that she's actually here now.

"Where are your hearing aids?" she asks cautiously.

_Gone_, _remember? _Clint signs succinctly, and suddenly he tires of the conversation. _Just say what you have to say and go_, he orders, and he looks so exhausted, so defensive that she wonders what the hell is going on inside his head.

"Clint - " she begins sharply, and he swivels awkwardly to look at her fully and she sees that he's seeing her … but he's not.

_You're not real,_ he snaps, and his gaze flicks to the empty spot on the couch next to her, _and __**you're**_ _not real, you fucking bastard_, he signs firmly, _so do what you came to do and just fuck off!_

Clint shuts down after that; he closes his eyes and sets his jaw and refuses to acknowledge her any further. Natasha can't leave the room fast enough. Once outside she leans against the wall, breath hitching. _It's the meds_, she tells herself unconvincingly. _It's just the meds. He'll be fine. _

She hears a shuffling noise and her knife is in her hand before she fully realizes it. It's only Banner, though, and he eyes her apprehensively until she puts the weapon away, and then he nods appraisingly.

"Thought that was you," he says quietly, in his unassuming and deceptively unthreatening way. "Glad you're back."

She doesn't know what to say; she thinks about Clint and how hard it is to see him this way.

"I don't know if I'm staying," she says quietly.

Banner nods his head once, a brief acknowledgement that he understands where she's coming from. "What will you do, then?"

Natasha already knows. "Make this right," she says grimly, and Banner doesn't bother pretending he doesn't know what she means.

"And what about Barton?" the doctor presses.

Her heart is aching, Natasha ignores it even as her eyes drop guiltily. "He's safe now. He's in good hands."

"He's got a long road ahead of him," Banner says gently, still soft, still patient. "Don't you think he'd rather you were with him?"

Natasha shakes her head, her red curls hiding her face as she murmurs, "I'd be surprised. I didn't find him, I wasn't here. I don't … I don't know if he could ever forgive me for that."

Banner squeezes her shoulders briefly, a rare moment of comfort shared between them. "Why don't you ask _**him **_what he wants?" he suggests, and his voice sharpens as he adds, "And when you're ready to 'make things right,' the other guy would like to lend a hand."

OoOoOoOoOo

Okay, so the Muse and I fought mightily over this chapter, since my original outline had Natasha only returning at the end for an extremely brief cameo, but the Muse won and here she is. What do you think? Detriment to the story? Good idea? I'm curious since the Muse and I are usually on the same page (ha, literary humor, get it? lol) but this chapter was totally hijacked and now Natasha has to be worked back into the story. Unless I make the whole thing a dream sequence. lol. let me know, please!


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N:** I cannot sufficiently thank all the awesome reviewers for overall response to the last chapter - you really rolled with the Muse's whim, and I have to admit that bringing Natasha back in earlier than I'd planned has, I hope, made this fic better (we'll see what you all think after reading this chapter) while in no way dimming Clint's interaction with the rest of the team.

There are so many reviewers I want to respond to - please be patient with me! I am extremely grateful for your thoughtfulness in reviewing, but unfortunately gratitude doesn't translate to time and a better internet connection, so I'm going to get this chapter up while I can, and hopefully reply to reviews and get the next chapter of Unlikely Housemates (for anyone following that story as well) tomorrow.

Thanks again!

OoOoOoOoOo

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

When Clint opens his eyes next, it's a little less dramatic than the last time. No redheaded assassin, no leering demigod are waiting for him. Phil's gone from his usual spot on the couch, too, and the hawk wonders if the fact that he's alone means that he's actually awake and has finally left behind the confusing realm of his nightmares that he hasn't quite been able to escape before now.

It's a sad thing to consider, and Clint doesn't dwell on it; it'd be like moping about all of the birthdays he's had that no one knew or cared about. Pointless. So he moves on.

Clint has a few fuzzy memories involving Stark and possibly Rogers, but they're just added to the jumble already muddling his brain. What the archer does remember, with incredible clarity, is the sense of danger shrouding him in all of his conscious moments; that at any second someone who's been haunting the shadows surrounding him - an agent from SHIELD; his brother; that asshole Loki - is going to come through the door, reaching for him, and Clint thinks … he knows … he's _afraid_ … that he just can't take any more.

Clint blinks, swallows, forces himself to breathe and focus, to catalogue his surroundings as he does each time he thinks he's awake. This time feels a little different than all the others before it; maybe it's because he seems more aware of the full multitude of hurts his body is complaining at him about, or maybe it's because his mind is infinitesimally clearer. The archer isn't complaining either way.

Lighting in this room is dim, easy on his aching head; he turns his head to the window and sees that it's dark outside, but he isn't sure if it's morning or night. There are tubes and IVs running into various places of his body, and Clint muses with a hint of his old practicality that if he really _**is**_ hallucinating he needs to work on his imagery: a sunny beach maybe would be nice, or any one of the amazing places he's been to in his many travels both for SHIELD and as a contract assassin, but this dark and boring room is really just sad.

A bright throbbing runs along his arm, startling him, and Clint's eyes dart to the source of this newest pain, half-expecting to see a bloody weal opened along his forearm thanks to some fucker who just won't leave him alone … but there's nothing there. It was just a muscle spasm.

Not real.

The archer coughs on a sob; it's so frustrating not to know what's _**real**_, to keep veering between being sure he's awake and in his right mind and in the next second being completely uncertain and inept and talking to people like Phil who can't possibly be here - or finding himself shaking in terror at a brother he can no longer trust or a demigod who ate him alive. He's so pathetic; why can't he tell the difference?

When did big, badass Hawkeye become scared of the monsters under his bed?

With determined hands Clint goes to pull IV lines, push himself up because he can't lie here in useless misery for one more second, it's _**not**_ who he is, even now that he's been shattered one more time. The archer manages to lift his arms slightly before a fiery pull in his right shoulder stops him. Clint hisses and grunts and tries again, and a bone deep ache digs into his left side and stops his breath in his chest.

Tears of pained frustration are leaking from Hawkeye's grey eyes, adding to his humiliation. A low groan slips from his lips because he can't even raise a hand to hide them, this damning display of his weakness. This isn't right. This can't be right.

Clint grits his teeth.

Clint Barton is not weak.

He's reaching for the IVs again when he realizes there's someone standing by his bed. Heart lodging somewhere in his throat, breath hammering against his ribs, Clint lifts his eyes slowly to regard the extremely unamused man at his left shoulder, arms crossed judgingly as he glares down at Clint with a combination of relief and irritability.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Clint's first indicator that he may actually be awake is that he has to read Tony's lips to know what he's saying.

The second sign is that his voice also doesn't seem to be working properly. Damn, he's a hot mess.

"Nnnn…" Clint slurs, and a fresh wave of embarrassment washes over him at how ridiculous he must sound. The archer's voice is in shreds, so he immediately switches tracks to sign defiantly, _What the hell does it look like?_

Tony's not impressed by his one-handed sign language, especially since Jarvis dutifully reports that it's nothing the AI is familiar with or able to translate.

"Is that a really elaborate way to give me the bird?" Stark asks with a raised eyebrow, "because otherwise I don't know what the hell you're flapping your fingers about." A tired grin crosses the inventor's shadowed face. "Oh, ha, get it? You're Hawkeye, and you're giving me the bird. That's really funny and somewhat ironic at the same time."

It weird for Clint to see Stark like this, tired and wary, like all of the sharp edges that make his personality so vibrantly alive have been dulled and blunted, and Clint wonders what the hell has been going on while he's been out of it. He wants to assure Tony that he's fine - even though _**he**_ doesn't believe it, there's no reason the archer couldn't convince Stark that it's all good if it would erase some of the deep lines from the man's haggard face - but with no voice it's a lost cause. Clint sketches in the air one more time helplessly, an angry croak sliding from between his clenched teeth.

Tony immediately reaches a hand forward, his expression flashing instantly from skepticism to concern.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay, man," he says, and Clint's brow furrows deeply because even though he doesn't know Stark well, he's definitely noticed that the other man has an aversion to being touched by anyone but Pepper. But Tony's hand is warm on his forearm, and even though Tony unintentionally squeezes a few bruises that are working slowly at healing, Clint doesn't try to say a word because he's more confused than anything, caught between believing this is actually real, and waiting for Stark to morph into another pissed-off SHIELD agent about to kick the shit out of him while he can't defend himself.

"Jarvis," Stark mutters - his voice is pitched soft because he doesn't know that it doesn't matter, that it's not just that Clint is incapable of speaking, but that the archer can't hear him even he could say anything - "Get Agent Romanoff, please."

Clint thinks he might have misread Stark's directive because that would be just too convenient, a little too perfect for his messed-up life for Natasha to be here, but after a few moments where both men exist in a not-uncomfortable silence and Tony helps the archer sip a little water that is really nice against his too-warm and too-dry mouth, the door opens and Natasha strides in, clearly just pulled from the shower because her hair is swinging in damp ringlets and her clothes are sticking to her supple body in wet patches where she's missed drying off in her haste to dress.

She's stunning, and Clint really, fervently hopes she's real, and it's not just that his hallucinations are getting _**extremely**_ detailed.

Ever observant and knowing his partner as intimately as he does, Clint can't help but catch the _**almost **_imperceptible wince as Natasha glances quickly at him, and suddenly it doesn't matter if he's actually lucid or not: Clint feels incredibly self-conscious. From what he can see, he looks like shit, and he can just bet that the parts he can't see don't look so good either. He tries to quirk a grin at his partner even though it pulls at his cracked and chapped lips.

_Hey,_ he signs with a nervous swallow. _Get the number of the helicarrier that hit me?_

Clint's signing is stiff and awkward as he tries to work muscles that haven't been utilized for weeks, and it's always been an odd mix developed between the two of them of standard ASL, code words, and slang they've added over the years for when you just needed to spice up what you were saying, all done with one hand since the other hand was usually gripping a weapon of some sort.

Natasha smiles at him; her eyes are suspiciously bright and her hand is pressed against a full mouth thinned even more tightly than usual, but she stands on the opposite side of the bed from Stark and signs carefully, _Don't be so dramatic. It was barely a quinjet. _

Clint huffs a small laugh through his nose. _My mistake._

Tony's watching them, clearly wishing he could add his own smart comments to the conversation but choosing to remain uncharacteristically silent, fidgeting restlessly but with his hand still on Clint's arm, grounding the archer in a way he's unexpectedly and supremely grateful for.

_What the hell happened?_ Natasha asks, her gaze darkening, and Clint's eyes track her fingers carefully, appreciatively - though he excels at reading lips, signing is so much easier for his fatigued mind to process. _Who did this?_

Clint shakes his head minutely, shuts her line of questioning down immediately. _Doesn't matter,_ he signs decisively. _Help me up_.

Natasha actually laughs out loud, partly because it's a ridiculous request, but also because it's so _Clint_.

_Not gonna happen, hawk_, she says gently, and Clint flashes her a furious look, mixed with a dose of fear that he can't quite cover at the thought of being trapped and defenseless in this fucking bed.

_I don't have time -_ he starts.

"Okay, enough of the mime show," Tony finally interrupts, his patience clearly maxed out. "What the hell are you guys saying?"

"Agent Barton wants to get out of bed," Natasha answers dryly, enunciating clearly for Clint's benefit.

"Uh huh," Tony responds, and Clint doesn't like the feeling that washes over him, like they know a lot more than he does and he just doesn't know yet how screwed he really is. "I don't think so, Feathers," the genius adds firmly. "Don't know if you've noticed yet with all your beauty sleep, but you've got so many holes in you that you're even more holier-than-thou than Rogers."

It's not Stark's best quip but Clint still forces a smile at the effort even though his stomach is churning anxiously. He glances back at Natasha in just in time to catch the tail end of her sentence - and he really wishes they'd stood on the same side of the bed, because all this back and forth trying to read their lips is giving him whiplash; she hadn't waited for him to look since her words are addressed to Stark:

" - alone, please."

Tony nods shortly, clearly displeased, and the warmth of his hand disappears from Clint's arm. Clint settles questioning eyes on Natasha but his partner says nothing; knowing that she's with him, however, makes Clint feel safe, like whether she's actually here or not, she's got his back, so slowly allows himself to give in to the exhaustion creeping over him, to the tired pull of his eyelids, and he drifts off quietly.

Something wakes him, he doesn't know if it's been minutes or hours. Gentle rivers of warm water are winding through his shaggy hair, and Natasha's hand is cupping his stubbled chin gently. Clint will learn later that Steve has been doing his best to keep Clint's scruffiness to a five 'o clock shadow at best - Natasha turns her hand, tilts his face, and skillfully catches the drops of water beading down near his right ear with a soft damp washcloth.

Clint is still, barely breathing as his partner carefully washes his hair, working shampoo in and through with light ministrations that almost bring him to his metaphorical knees.

It's been a long time since Clint Barton was touched this gently.

Natasha slowly pulls the washcloth through his hair, cleaning out the remnants of soap, and towels his sandy strands patiently. Her hands disappear for a minute, and then she has fresh warm water, a fresh cloth that she touches to his skin lightly, brushing his closed eyelids and across his bruised face with a tenderness that leaves him quivering with a tension he can't release, can't _**quite**_ make it past the fear that he's dreaming again and monsters of darkness are waiting for him when he opens his eyes. She keeps at it, though, with a delicate touch that he thinks is usually reserved for cleaning her pistols, and when she regretfully moves away from his face to his neck Clint cracks his lashes open to study her silently, noting the stiffness of her strong fingers, the barely-there biting of her lower lip that he notices because he knows to look for it.

Natasha is angry.

She slowly works her way down his weakened body, washing carefully, skirting bandages and tubes and Clint tries not to watch, his unease and shame multiplying as he sees every wince, every frown chasing across his partner's face as her feather-light fingers dance over his ashen skin, tracing old scars, counting new ones as she washes him tenderly.

The assassin finishes her work, and then shows him a small box. Clint knows exactly what it is and he doesn't try to control his desperately eager nod; it's been too damn long that he's been trapped in silence. Natasha opens the box, gently slides his hearing aids into his ears and patiently helps Clint adjust them until he thinks he's ready.

"Th-anks," he stutters weakly, and Natasha slides a hand behind his neck to help him slowly drink a glass of water she holds to his lips.

"You're welcome," she says with a half-smile, but he can tell she's still angry, _furious_ under the surface of her calm. Clint hopes her anger isn't directed at him for getting himself fucked up _this badly, _but he forges on bravely, his own face lighting up in relieved joy at being able to hear again.

"We're gonna get the bastards who did this," Natasha promises, and Clint doesn't feel like arguing with her.

"Not … to-night…?" is what he manages to rasp out, inclining his head to the side; she readily gives in to his request and carefully settles herself next to him on the bed, her familiar curves molding to his body and Clint feels so damn tired but he has one last thing to ask:

"Please?" he says softly, and his spider knows exactly what he's asking, what he _**needs**_. She begins talking quietly, soothing words that he can finally hear as she murmurs in his ear and his hair tickles her nose, reminding him of past missions, snatches of current news, whatever comes to her mind to say.

Natasha keeps whispering long after Clint's body has relaxed into sleep, long after the fingers of morning creep their way across the sky. She's made her decision, and she wants Clint to know she's here with him, even after his scores are settled.

Whether he wants them to be or not.

OoOoOoOoOo

Wow. This chapter got really long! Lol. Pleeeeeeeeeease review! Reviews equal love and also updates because they inspire the Muse to get me out of bed at 4am to write instead of sleep, as it felt the need to with this chapter. It probably shows. lol


	22. Chapter 22

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

The Avengers are exhausted.

It's been a hell of a time lately, and they're all starting to wear the strain around the edges; even Tony's normally deliberately self-assured cockiness is absent, only showing in flashes when the inventor manages to summon up the energy for someone else's benefit - usually Pepper or Clint.

They're clustered in Clint's room now, on the second bed and the low couch that they've pulled away from Hawkeye's bedside so as not to disturb the sleeping archer. They need to regroup, to plan ahead, but the thought of having their quiet meeting anywhere else doesn't even occur to them: at least one of them is always in Clint's room since Tony had shared the news of members of SHIELD being responsible for kidnapping and nearly killing the archer, and also because Clint's growing awareness of his surroundings is not always lucid or coherent and they're not quite sure which Clint will be present at any given time: depressed, terrified, stubborn, sarcastic, or, the archer put it dryly once in one of his more clear-headed moments, "completely batshit out of his damn mind."

Natasha's sitting on the floor, leaning against Clint's bed; her head rests lightly against her partner's hip, her fingers entwined with his lax hand as she asks grimly,

"So? Now what?"

They know she's resigned from working for SHIELD directly. Fury had been furious but there was little he could do; the Director could take some small consolation, however, in the Black Widow choosing to remain with the Avengers for the time being, so he still has access to her "unique skill set" through the team when he needs her.

Steve, always feeling the pressure of being team leader, sets his jaw firmly, his deep blue eyes stern. "We keep working. We can't just hole up here when there are so many people who need us."

"That's damn patriotic of you, Spangles," Tony shoots back grimly. "And while I agree, I think we also need to remember that there are some really bad men working for the same guys we do, and I don't particularly want to run into them at any company picnics."

"What's your suggestion then, Stark?" Steve's clearly frustrated, and it hasn't escaped the rest of the team that tension between the soldier and Iron Man has been unexceptionally high lately, like they're carrying on their own private battle between them but trying to put on the face of uniformity for everyone else.

"Go rogue," Tony says bluntly. "Distance ourselves from SHIELD; we don't need to be on their leash to do what we're already doing."

Steve shakes his head doubtfully - he's _**not**_ comfortable with this idea at all but he's also not surprised by Stark's suggestion: he's learned that Stark had fought tooth and nail against joining SHIELD in the first place, and it was only Loki's theft of the Tessaract with its potentially horrifying consequences that finally reluctantly pulled the inventor under the agency's auspices.

"I'm in," says Natasha without hesitation.

"Hold on, let's not get ahead of ourselves." Steve raises a hand while Bruce just looks unhappy. The scientist now knows he's never been off of SHIELD's radar like he'd thought and without the agency's protection his life may get a lot more difficult now that the Other Guy has once against been splashed across the media. "We need to think this through, not just go jumping into rash decisions because we're angry at a few people."

"It'd be easier if Feathers would just give us the names," Tony mutters with a dark glance at their still teammate. They'd broached the idea a few times with Clint, but he'd refused to say anything about it. Tony doesn't blame him - the inventor doesn't know if he can name any of the names from Afghanistan, doesn't even want to _**try**_ to think about the men who had tormented him, but at the same time he's itching to do _something _and his unofficial avenues have yet to turn up anything concrete on additional SHIELD agents … overstepping … their bounds.

Steve looks at the archer's silent form also; Hawkeye's lost a lot of weight and his muscles have atrophied to the point where he simply sets his jaw stubbornly and glares his way through the physical therapy Tony's arranged for him, but he has a little more color and there are less bandages keeping him together than before. The arrow gouge in Hawkeye's shoulder is what worries them the most right now; without admitting it aloud - because that would somehow make it more _real_ - they all know that the marksman might never use his bow again, and that fact added to everything else already facing the weakened archer might crumble him completely.

"He's looking better," Steve finally says softly, setting them back on safer ground for now though a unified decision would have to be reached soon. "No further issues with his hearing, then?"

Natasha almost says something, almost tells them of Clint's infirmity, but she had long ago decided that it was her partner's business to decide who to tell or not, and if he doesn't trust the team with that information she certainly isn't going to spill it, either.

"It's good," she replies shortly, and the team looks reassured - Tony especially looks incredibly relieved, like a huge weight has been lifted from his wiry shoulders. The Russian ponders what Stark would say if he ever finds out that Clint's been mostly deaf for years, but she brushes it aside practically: Natasha doesn't waste time _wondering_ things or _dreaming_ for a life that's completely out of her reach.

Behind her, Clint shifts, whimpers, and they catch their collective breath. Bruce is off the couch immediately and padding to the archer's side, courteously avoiding the assassin hunched on the floor as his gentle fingers check lines, adjust medication, make a few notes on the extremely detailed treatment log he's been keeping.

It's hard to miss the anxiety digging grooves into Bruce's face as he struggles to keep control. They'd actually almost had an incident with the Other Guy the first time Bruce had seen Hawkeye's nearly dead body, but somehow Bruce has managed to continually convince the Hulk that Banner needs to remain in control if they're going to help the archer. It isn't easy going, though, and Bruce is clearly fighting every step of the way to stay the scientist/doctor and not become the enraged demolition machine clamoring violently for retribution with every breath.

Bruce again promises the Other Guy there'll be plenty for him to do later, but for now they need to help Clint, and Hulk grudgingly settles after that though Bruce can still feel his angry rumblings at the back of his mind. They're both troubled over the situation, and it's one of the few things they've ever agreed upon.

"We can't hide him from SHIELD forever," Bruce murmurs pointedly as he changes the bandages wrapping Clint's calf; he _hmms_ a pleased noise at the healing already evident. "Fury'll find out sooner or later."

"We can't let him go back, either," Tony mumbles defensively, and Pepper lays a hand on his arm, her thumb rubbing small circles against his bicep. She's both surprised and not at the newly evident protective side of Tony that had emerged throughout Hawkeye's ordeal: she's known he's capable of it, but it hasn't been displayed quite so consistently before now. If only he weren't so abnormally quiet and pensive, she'd be celebrating a little more.

"How about we let him decide?" Natasha proffers wryly. "I doubt he'll want it any other way."

Bruce drops back onto the couch tiredly, exhaustion from his constant battle slowing his movements. "He's not strong enough to do much of anything right now. It'll be awhile before he can - "

"GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME!"

Clint's agonized scream rolls through the room, freezing everyone momentarily.

"OFF! OFF! GET _**OFF**_!"

Several things happen at once.

Clint screams and thrashes on the bed, fighting an invisible enemy that only he can see.

Natasha flips up to grasp her partner's flailing hands but despite her hasty litany of soothing mutters Hawkeye's desperation only grows; his voice had barely strengthened to usable but now it's gone completely as he grinds out hoarsely shattered screams from between clenched teeth. Sweat breaks out across his skin, rolling in rivulets down his face and the protruding veins of his neck.

Tony's off the other bed where he'd been lying with his head in Pepper's lap; he's on the opposite side of Clint from Natasha and together they're frantically trying to calm the archer down without causing him additional injury or fear.

Bruce starts forward to help but drops to his knees with an agonized wail, his hands flying to his head: he can't control the Hulk any longer - there is no more reasoning with the creature who doesn't fully grasp what's going on and only sees the archer yelling and scared and people swarming the bedside trying to pin him down.

Steve aborts his efforts to assist Hawkeye and instead wraps his strong arms around Bruce even as Tony glances over his shoulder, realizes what's happening, and yells,

"Get him out! Rogers, get him out of here!"

Steve hauls Bruce backwards towards the door even as the scientist's skin starts rippling green, his tormented growls growing louder as his body swells and expands. "Calm down, Bruce!" Steve shouts over the clamor of Clint's thrashing. The archer manages to flail an arm against the IV stand near his head and it crashes to the ground with a clatter, adding to the chaos and noise. "You have to calm down!"

They're out the door, into the quiet of the hall and Steve's still frantically half-carrying Banner's shifting body. The soldier knows if Banner loses control there's no telling what will happen: none of them are strong enough to contain the Hulk and Clint's sedative arrows are a long way away, so if Banner can't keep it together they're all screwed.

"Come on, Bruce!" Steve demands, trying to sound encouraging but sharpening his voice to steel, every word an order that demands obedience. Bruce is panting, twisting in Steve's powerful grip, but he's very clearly nearly exhausted and the Hulk's anger is growing. "You can do this! You can do it, Bruce!"

Inside Clint's room, they've managed to get the archer's panic attack to subside to primal trembling and a low whine from the back of Clint's throat that's more painful to hear than his terrified screaming. Natasha has curled carefully against Hawkeye's shaking body, whispering softly in Russian, one hand on his cheek and another winding through his hair, and Tony's palm is resting lightly against Clint's shoulder, barely grazing just enough to let the archer know he's there. Pepper's behind Tony, quietly strong and supportive, as the three of them regard each other miserably over the barely conscious but still fighting archer.

Steve reenters slowly, Bruce staggering weakly beside him, and both of their faces are painted with the same hopelessness they're suddenly all feeling:

They have no idea what to do.

OoOoOoOoOo

Please review if you can! I really appreciate it!


	23. Chapter 23

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

_You don't need to bother_

_I don't need to be_

_I'll keep slipping farther_

_But once I hold on, I won't let go til it bleeds_

_- 'Bother,' Stonesour_

They are the unofficial leaders of the Avengers, responsible for the welfare of the team and the go-to guys for answers to almost anything.

Steve is the visible forerunner, the symbol of wholesome goodness and old-fashioned values all wrapped up in a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped package that makes women swoon and men want to do crunches, pushups, _**and**_ sit-ups every single night.

Tony's the brains; though he catches the eye of his own share of admirers, he's the inventor, the genius, the life of the party that somehow keeps the team functioning when all they really want to do is fall to their knees in wide-eyed hopelessness at the cruelty and carnage constantly surrounding them.

They didn't quite get off on the right foot when they first met, and the two men have had an unofficial rivalry from the start. Tony doesn't take well to Steve's holier-than-thou attitude; Steve can't understand Tony's rash decision making and deliberately abrasive nature. Despite this, though, they've managed to operate as part of the whole and even complement each other well tactically.

They remain completely at odds over their next move, however.

Steve wants to go to Fury. Not only does he emphatically feel that the Director deserves both to know about Barton, and continue to stress the archer's innocence, the soldier's moral compass is demanding that Fury be informed about the agents within his organization responsible for nearly killing the archer.

Tony wants as far from SHIELD as possible. He doesn't need them or their money, and he sure as hell isn't interested in working for them any more - he's tired of keeping up appearances, like they're doing today. He gets it on a gut level that Cap's right and they can't shelter Hawkeye for much longer, but something about the devastated archer's plight resonates with Tony in a way that stirs an intolerance for injustice that he mostly tries to ignore; he knows he'll get melancholy if he thinks on all the endless and impossible work to do rather than focusing on living for today and helping in the small and occasional ass-kicking ways he can.

The captain and the inventor are working together silently, looking for injured, cleaning up rubble. The fight's over, another wannabe villain vanquished, and they're waiting for Banner to de-Hulk in private somewhere while they assist in cleaning up the mess left behind. Call it stress, call it exhaustion, call it a simmering anger that eventually and extremely soon is going to boil over, but there are no words exchanged between the two even as they numbly perform in uncomfortable sync; there's nothing to distract them from the awkwardness they've created with their constant and mostly hushed arguing. If Tony weren't so gung-ho on the Avengers functioning as an actual team, he might have sent Steve's high-and-mighty ass on his way before now, because frankly he's tired of being mired in this depressing situation for so long and Steve's stubbornly unwavering stance keeps pulling him back down into the murk.

But that's not what Phil died for.

Steve opens his mouth to speak, probably to stress once again their _responsibility_ to his idea of justice, but Tony ignores him because he notices a SHIELD agent about twenty feet away, picking through the wreckage with his teammates, working on cleanup just like they are. Tony's dark eyes narrow as he realizes that he recognizes this particular agent - he's the fucker who finally gave Tony the address to that shitty apartment where they were keeping Barton, and also the stupid dick who almost 'accidentally' took Tony out with a poorly aimed shot at the Rhino.

Tony's fists clench. He's confrontational by nature, and the constant anxiety of the last several weeks has not gentled his explosive temperament nor expanded his infinitesimal reserves of patience when dealing with stressful situations.

"_**Hey! Asshole!" **_he shouts angrily, starting forward without really thinking about what he's doing but going with the primal urge for blame and validation that his feelings in this whole fucked-up situation are correct. To his credit, the agent doesn't look over at Tony's words, but Steve does as he realizes something has clearly set Tony off.

The agent _**does**_ glance up when his field of vision is obscured by shiny red and gold, and maybe he shudders a little - the last time he'd encountered Iron Man it had ended with a metal glove to his face, a broken nose, and a reprimand from Hill about being more careful where his bullets went in the future.

"Can I help you?" he snaps irritably, but Tony sees the fear in his nervously darting gaze; a sick feeling tightens Tony's stomach as he wonders if this fuckhead saw fear in Barton's eyes before he proceeded to pummel the crap out of the archer, but Tony does allow himself a grim smile as he realizes _probably not_, Hawkeye wouldn't have given these assholes the satisfaction - Tony refuses to entertain the possibility that he might be wrong about that - whereas this little fuck-ant looks like he's about to piss himself.

"Yeah," Tony shoots back angrily, "It's about Hawkeye. You know, your _colleague_ you carved up and left to die bleeding out in a shitty apartment somewhere?"

The agent scoffs on a snort and turns away. "I got nothing to say to you freaks," he mutters, and here's Steve, his ever calm and do-gooding hand on Tony's shoulder trying to pull Stark away from this confrontation he's setting himself up for, but Tony wrestles out from under Steve's warning hold and jabs a metal finger against the agent's shoulder.

"I think you do."

"Yeah, well, I think I don't." The agent clearly feels that Steve has got this under control, and he starts to walk away, the damning throwaway comment falling from his lips: "You wanna fall on your sword over that jacked-up little traitor shit, you go right ahead."

Yesterday morning, Tony had been the first to lose the battle and give in to Clint's quietly insistent demands to be taken to the weapons range. Tony knew that Clint meant the SHIELD range where he'd logged thousands of hours, but Clint still doesn't know the whole story about his current MIA status within SHIELD and the fact that his bosses consider him a potential threat and may not hesitate to take him out on sight.

So Tony had given in and wheeled Clint to the floor below the gym, now turned into the Avengers' own shiny new private practice range. Clint had wanted his bow but emphatically _**not**_ his arrows, and he sat quietly in his wheelchair clutching the weapon but never drawing. Tony watched Clint's sharp eyes dart around the room, could practically see the archer calculating angles and trajectories, running himself through all the steps without actually firing his bow. Neither of them said a word - though Tony fidgeted like crazy - and finally Clint's mouth thinned, he nodded, and handed his bow back to Tony carefully.

And that was the end of it.

But Tony had seen the look in the archer's eyes, realized that bringing him to the range was a mistake. Because Clint had figured it out. Clint _**knew**_.

His life as he'd known it really was over; his shaggy head dropped despondently as Tony wheeled him back to his room and helped him slide back into the bed he'd barely left in weeks.

And this is what flashes through Tony's mind as his vision shifts to red. This is the guilt that tightens Tony's throat as he grinds out the damning accusations. This is the hatred that swells viciously in him as he lunges for this shithead who'd _**dared**_ assist in the tearing down of a man who may not be an innocent in the grand scheme of things but was sure as hell trying to make his ledger right. This is the revulsion that nauseates him because he knows that Hawkeye won't touch his arrows because he had to dig one of them out of his own fucking flesh to kill a man before that man killed him. And this is the fear he felt as he remembered tight hands around his own neck while he fought like a man possessed to breathe, to break free because Clint was fucking _**dying**_ in the other room and Tony needed to breathe.

These are his fingers, tightening around the throat in his grip.

Steve is yelling, clawing at him frantically like the struggling man locked in his grasp, wheezing like a gutted fish, but even Captain America is no match for Iron Man's metal suit so Tony ignores him.

He just squeezes.

OoOoOoOoOo


	24. Chapter 24

Thank you for reviews for the last chapter! I really appreciate them! :D

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Nick Fury has his hands full.

This of course is not usual for the director of SHIELD: he's got so many plates spinning in the air all of the time that it's a wonder he can keep track of them without dropping any. He wouldn't be able to manage right now, with this one crisis after another thing they've got going on, if not for Hill, who's shouldered more than her share of the burden since Phil died:

The Manhattan rebuild, still underway and threatened, it seems, nearly every week as SHIELD deals with new dangers, new thugs trying to top Loki's crazy bid for world domination. Failing spectacularly, of course, but still trying.

Barton's disappearance, continually troubling to Fury but of late relegated to the bottom of the list since no more issues have arisen involving the agent and there's been no sign or word of him.

Romanoff's resignation. Fury had been thinking about tapping her to replace Phil, which obviously is now not gonna happen. In truth, Fury had been expecting something like this with Hawkeye missing - the director had correctly guessed that his former assassin would have her hands full locating the man with whom her loyalty lay.

Also there's the matter of having _**his**_ hands full dealing with a quite long list of newly deceased Bad Guys, somehow all connected to Barton in some way: whether it's the work of a rogue Barton himself or the Black Widow, at the moment Fury's simply glad things are still getting done, because right now he's also busy with some self-proclaimed-genius asshole (_**not**_ Stark, Fury appends to himself wryly, though the moniker _**would**_ fit) who is currently dicking around with time and pulling random people from the past and future into the present. Now Fury has to deal with a displaced hysterical housewife from 2017, a wounded Union soldier from 1864, and an extremely confused individual who may or may not actually be Thomas Edison.

Fury guesses that this "genius"/nut job's trying for specific people to aid him in his Ultimate Plan, but for whatever reason hasn't perfected grabbing the right person yet. Regardless of his progress, however, his work needs to be shut down (unless SHIELD scientists are more successful with this experiment than the failed Phase Two disaster) - if only they could catch him in one place long enough to do so. It would be the perfect assignment for Romanoff and Barton, but Fury has to send lesser agents, none of whom are having any success thus far.

And finally, there are the increasingly clamoring reports of "issues" with some agents within SHIELD. Hill's working on that now, tracking down the malefactors, but if she doesn't make progress soon he'll need to look into it, because what started as whispers are becoming louder, more insistent, and if Fury and Hill can't lock this down now no one will trust each other at SHIELD any more, and Fury won't allow that.

All of these things were already on Fury's desk this morning.

And now there's this.

Stark stands before him, a slowly saturating bloody cloth pressed to the side of his face. Fury's seen Stark drunk, hungover, on his way to being drunk and hungover, serious, irritated, ridiculous. None of it compares to the cold rage darkening Stark's face: he's aged fifteen years if he's aged a day, and Fury honestly never thought he'd see the jubilant superhero so grounded as he is right now, his clear eyes shining sharp and furious and holding Fury's angry gaze without wavering.

Stark slams his free palm down onto Fury's massive desk, ready to unleash his angry explanation - Fury knows there's a torrent on the tip of his tongue that's about to come crashing down, and the director needs to control the situation. He needs to shut Stark down.

"What the _**hell**_ is the meaning of this?" Fury demands immediately, waving a hastily typed report in front of Stark's face. "You nearly killed a man - a SHIELD agent! - _**for what**_?"

Stark's instantaneous switch from aggressor to defender is barely noticeable: the man is confrontational either way, so it doesn't really matter to him which side of the court he's on. "He had it coming!" Stark snaps irately, his furious words muddled by the tissue.

"Really?" Fury mutters grimly, and he waves a disbelieving hand toward Stark's blood-spattered face. "And this was him trying to defend himself?"

Stark laughs shortly, but it's a harsh grating sound completely at odds with his normal joking demeanor. "Hardly," he snorts, and so it's pained to hear that Fury winces. "_**This**_ was Rogers."

His words should be a surprise to Fury, but honestly everything's so fucking insane right now it barely registers. "I've got my hands full right now, Stark!" Fury snaps, his frustration glaring. "Do you really think I have time to deal with your little catfights, too?"

"Well, here's one less thing for you to deal with," Stark retorts immediately. "I'm out."

He turns on his heel for the door and Fury's knees suddenly feel just a little weak: he _**can't**_ lose another Avenger, the team's already on shaky ground as it is. He's desperate; it shows in the sudden plaintive softness of his strident voice.

"You've fought harder for this team than anyone else, even Rogers," Fury says quietly, and Stark freezes on his way out, hesitating just enough for Fury to get the hook in:

"If you walk, it's over."

Fury watches Stark's shoulders stiffen and he adds the final accusation, one last bid to save the Avengers:

"Is that what you want?"

OoOoOoOoOo

Tony knows that Clint's pretending to sleep; he has to be, because no one could sleep as much as the archer has lately, and it's much easier to believe that Clint's feigning unconsciousness than to accept that the man's just weak, exhausted, and succumbing to depression.

Tony clears his throat, and Clint yawns and cracks a blue eye open, cringing as he takes in Tony's battered face.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asks in the growl that's currently his voice; stronger, but still scraped raw by nightmares that won't leave him alone, wake him screaming multiple times a night. "Pepper finally have it with your snoring?" he wants to know, adding grouchily, "'cuz I know I'm tired of it, but it's still better than trying to sing Hulk to sleep."

Tony smiles at the mental image and puts a hand to his chest dramatically. "Hardly. I got this little trophy defending _**your**_ honor, thank you very much. Almost took him out." Tony will never, _**ever**_ in a million years tell Clint that he was defending himself from _**Steve**_ - Steve, who'd finally cracked him in the face to make him release that fucking smug bastard who'd _**deserved**_ to feel at Tony's unforgiving fingers wrapped around his damn neck. Tony had been hauled off to speak with Fury as soon as it had happened, and he hadn't seen what had become of Rogers or the shithead he'd left in a groaning, sobbing pile in the street.

"You almost killed a guy … for me?" Clint asks cautiously, and his expression is so comical that Tony wishes he had a camera because this is friggin' Facebook blackmail material right here. "I don't know whether to be flattered or creeped out," Clint admits hesitantly.

"Probably a little of both," Tony suggests, trying for a good-natured smile. He needs a distraction - his adrenaline is still running high, and his little confrontation with Fury didn't help. "Feel like giving walking another go?"

Tony knows that Clint hates walking even as the practical archer accepts that it's a necessary evil. This problem is that Clint's exhausted after a few steps because everything hurts so damn much that it's an exercise in patience and endurance not just for the archer but also whoever is currently helping him since the attempts usually leave Clint in less than a good mood.

"How about a beer instead?" Clint jokes weakly. "Guys' night out with Steve and Bruce to rehash the good old days of the almost year we've known each other?"

Tony wants to smile, he does, but he isn't even sure if Rogers is coming back to tower. God, when did things get So. Fucked. Up?

"How about walking?" he suggests again, and Clint sighs; the archer doesn't want to, but the inventor also has new incentive. "Look what I've got for you once you get your sea legs back," Tony prods cheerily, reaching outside the door to enthusiastically produce a pair of crutches that he waves around enticingly. Clint's expression brightening is worth Tony's sad efforts at cheer, though he's clearly trying not to give too much away.

"Your surprises kinda suck," Clint informs Tony wryly, and Tony smiles tightly, thinking that he really could surprise the archer if he wanted to.

_Hey, Legolas, I forgot to tell you: you've been branded a traitor again and the guys you keep killing yourself for don't want you anymore._

_Oh, by the way, Feathers, Rogers may not be coming back._

_Hey, Barton, I guess I should tell you that the Avengers' Initiative has been disbanded. _

And finally, the one that pains Tony the most right now:

_I talked to your doctors, Clint._ _I'm sorry, man … _

But the last one at least will wait til next week, til the appointment Tony knows Clint is desperately waiting for, trying to pretend he's already accepted the inevitable when Tony can see that there's still a tiny ember of hope burning in the archer that won't quite die. Tony hopes it enough. He doesn't think it will be.

For now, Tony smiles just a little brighter for both of their sake.

"Let's just walk, okay?"

OoOoOoOoOo

Soooooo I almost always worry when asking for specific feedback, but honestly all the reviewers of this story have been fantastic, and some of you leave the most amazing and detailed reviews that I'm going to give in to my curiosity and ask: anyone getting tired of Protective!Tony yet?

Oh, and if you don't have thoughts on that, please feel free to review anyway: remember - reviews = happy Muse = frequent updates. It's like math or something! :D


	25. Chapter 25

So glad Protective!Tony hasn't tired anyone, because here he is, in the calm before the storm...

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Clint rolls his eyes with a dramatic huff, annoyed and tired of being poked and prodded after already enduring weeks of countless poking and prodding. Physical therapy, a rotating schedule of doctors that includes Tony's own team and Bruce, and Natasha's endless hovering is pushing the reclusive archer closer and closer to edge of giving up trying to hold the safety tether of his sanity together, just saying _fuck it!_ and jumping off the cliff into craziness himself.

But today could make it all worth it.

Clint flexes the fingers of both hands, smoothly and fluidly, and raises an eyebrow in pointed question as the doctor finishes making a few notes on Clint's chart. The archer feels pretty good, all things considered, and almost unbelievingly the doctor utters the words he's been waiting to hear, hoping against hope, daring to believe even though reason and practicality warned him against allowing it:

"I don't see any indication of long term damage, Agent Barton… I'll prescribe a continuation of your current therapy routine and you'll be back to using your bow in no time."

Clint grins brilliantly - the first time in _forever_ - relief flooding him like cleansing white light washing over his wounded soul - he feels _healed, whole,_ less like _he just can't fucking do this_ and more like _hey, tomorrow might not be so bad!_

He pushes off the exam table - which is in reality a reclining-type chair Tony's got in his lab that apparently he uses when he's poking around at his arc reactor - snatching his shirt from the back of the chair. "Thanks, doc," he says genuinely, already making plans to head off to the range; there's no reason he can't get a little practice in, even if he's got a long way to go before he's back to himself…

"Clint. _**Clint**_."

Clint blinks heavily, shakes his head just slightly, and realizes that he's still sitting on the table; Tony's standing off to the side, expectedly burdened with his now-normal look of concern - which Clint _**hates**_ because he knows he's the cause of it - as he repeatedly calls Clint's name. Clint's doctor of the week shifts unhappily before the archer, and he's looking at Clint warily with an expression on his face Clint doesn't want to see.

Clint shakes his head. "No … " he says softly. It's a plea wrapped in a barely contained sob that Clint's unreasonably ashamed that it finds its way past his shaky defenses. The doctor adjusts his glasses, scratches his arms, clicks his pen; he's clearly uncomfortable with what he's about to say.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmurs gently, his _doctor tone_ firmly in place. "The damage is so extensive … "

_**No. **_Clint jumps to his feet angrily, almost falls over but catches his suddenly flailing hand on the edge of the table with an incensed "_Fuck!"_ spilling from his lips. He feels for all the world like he's about to throw his crutches in a rage but some inner voice of reason stops him forcefully and he jams them instead under his arms furiously.

"Hey, Feathers," Tony starts anxiously, but he too is at a loss for words as Clint storms for the door. Tony looks at the doctor hopelessly. "Doc?"

The man shakes his head unhappily; Tony knows they've tried, they've all tried - the doctors, the team, Clint - and he really, _**really**_ thought - hoped, wanted, prayed - Clint would have more to show for it, more of a future to look forward to.

"The muscle damage is so extensive," the doctor repeats softly. "I think a partial recovery is the best we can hope for."

Tony doesn't want to hear any more; he thanks the doctor numbly and follows the path Clint has taken: it's ridiculously easy because the once noiseless archer is skidding and shuffling and deliberately banging his crutches as he goes, his anger and despair palpable in the low growls he can't quite keep in.

Tony realizes easily that Clint's headed for the roof; he's been up there once or twice since being given the crutches that afford him more mobility than the wheelchair he spitefully hates. Tony follows, settles himself down next to the archer as Clint slams his crutches down and so very carefully lowers himself to sit on the ledge, legs dangling over the side as he surveys the bustle of the city below him with a choked snarl. It almost makes Tony sick to look down, but any fear of heights he'd had has lessened considerably since his re-entry to the world as Iron Man.

They sit in silence, and Tony takes a second to ponder what he did with his time before _this_, because now it seems like his life has dwindled to a blur of time where he's either with Clint or crawling exhaustedly into bed next to Pepper at night. His world has become so narrow he almost can't remember the days of drinking and partying that used to make up his existence. It's a weird change, and if wasn't because the archer had been so fucked up, Tony might have actually appreciated how unexpectedly mature he's suddenly become.

He's _**so**_ throwing a party for them as soon as Clint's feeling up to it, though. They all deserve a bit of levity.

Clint sighs heavily. "Thanks for all your efforts," he says dully, and his bright eyes have shifted back to washed-out grey, as lifeless as his tone when he speaks.

Tony doesn't like where this conversation is going, doesn't like the way Clint's gaze is drifting, calculating; he catches Clint glancing at his usual t-shirt and jeans speculatively and he's more than 90% certain that Clint's realizing if he pushes himself off this ledge right now that Tony's not gonna be able to get his suit in time to keep the archer from splattering all over the pavement below.

"We're not done," Tony promises desperately; his hand goes to Clint's arm in what he hopes seems like he's reassuring the archer, when what he's actually doing is holding on to said archer to keep him from potentially throwing himself off the building. "And we're gonna get the bastards that did this," he assures, but Clint only looks at him tiredly.

"What's the point of that?" the hawk asks softly. "It's not gonna bring Phil back. It's not gonna bring back the people that I killed."

"But look what they did to you!" Tony sputters indignantly. "They fucking put _holes_ in your arms and legs - that alone is reason enough to want justice!"

Clint looks uncomfortable and he shifts painfully at the reminder of his injuries. He can't be feeling great after his staggering journey up here, or the balance that it takes the exhausted archer from slumping off his narrow perch. "I do want that … " he mumbles truthfully. "But I also … I …" Clint hesitates, so clearly vulnerable in this moment; his weary eyes are suddenly shining in their quietly desperate earnestness. "I don't want anyone else to, you know … because of _**me**_."

Anyone else to suffer? To die? Clint can't seem to bring himself to finish the thought aloud but Tony shakes his head; he understands, he _**does**_, but it doesn't feel right. Clint picks up on his indecision; for all the archer's lost, he's still one of the sharpest men Tony's ever met.

Clint adds quietly, "When you've dealt in death as long as I have, you get to a point where it's just too much. This mess with Loki … it just … " he shifts awkwardly, hunting for the right words, uncomfortable but honest in his helplessness. It's a measure of how much the two men have come to trust each other of late that they're even having this conversation right now, and despite himself Tony feels just a little spike of pride. "It was just too much," Clint's saying. "The Tessaract showed me purpose, yeah, clearer focus than I've ever had." He quiets, and if they weren't hanging over the city Tony would be on the edge of his seat: it's the most Clint has ever spoken of his time under Loki's control and Tony's insanely curious.

"And?" the inventor prompts.

"And that's all I thought about: my purpose." He frowned, his brows knitting together anxiously. "My purpose was death. My purpose _**is**_ death. My _whole life_ has been shaped by it, ever since my asshole dad wrapped his truck and my mom around a tree." The archer shakes his head. "And to what end?" Clint demands softly. "Is this it, really? We go and go until, what? We die because I missed or Nat's too slow?"

"Well, what would you do instead?" Tony wonders, and he wonders if Natasha has told Clint she'd resigned from SHIELD; the archer doesn't seem to know that piece of information. "Have a normal life?"

Clint shrugs. "Normal is boring. And what is 'normal,' anyway?"

"Well," Tony says encouragingly; he's certainly not going to dissuade Clint from resigning from SHIELD even though he knows it won't be easy for the archer to completely cut ties with the agency he's belonged to since he was a teenager, "It seems like we've all got a pretty good thing going here, so there's that. You know, fighting bad guys and such."

Clint looks unsure, like the man who is always calculating possibilities actually doesn't _know_ how to figure this problem out, but he says quietly, "Thanks for all your help, man. I don't know what I can do to really say thanks for everything you've done."

Tony smiles brightly, really trying: he doesn't accept gratitude well, and Clint's words strike him deeper than the effusively lavish thanks heaped upon Tony Stark when he throws money at something or someone. "Well, I always wanted a little nephew to spoil."

Clint snorts, gives Tony a dirty look. "Thanks," he says dryly. He sighs, so lost, so undone. "I feel so useless," he admits listlessly. "Oh, right, because I _**am**_."

Nuh-uh. Not on Tony's watch. "Puh-_**lease**_," the inventor scoffs. "Just because you're pretty much without your arms and legs doesn't mean we don't all love your optimistic charm!"

Clint looks surprised, and then he actually chuckles though it's the laugh of someone who can't quite remember how it works. "You're a dick," he says with a small grin, but then something in the archer's expression shifts, and cracks, and Clint looks at his hands across his knees; apparently he's decided he's all in, because the next words he utters are: "I'm deaf, Tony."

"If you're tired of me talking just say so," Tony says wryly, giving Clint an out just in case the archer regrets letting it slip. Clint forges on, though, decision to reveal his burden made, and his expression lightens just a little.

"No … Tony," Clint interrupts, almost desperate to finish now that he's begun. "I am … I _have been_ deaf. For years."

Seriousness shutters Tony's face with a wan grin. "I know."

Clint freezes. "What?" he asks softly.

"I know," Tony repeats. "And Banner knows. He figured it out, found your hearing aids during one of your checkups. We just … " and he actually looks uncomfortable, "we didn't want you to have to deal with worrying about us knowing on top of everything else you're trying to kill yourself with."

"Oh." Clint says smally, and he shrugs, trying to look casual. "Sonic arrow," he explains airily. "You know, for the greater good and all."

Tony looks him long and hard in the eyes, then says in a voice very un-Tony-like because it's so serious, "And you almost died turning Romanoff around because you believed there was something there. You've thrown yourself on SHIELD's grenades time and again - why do you keep punishing yourself?"

"LOOK WHAT I'VE DONE!" Clint explodes, raw and open and hurting; loose stone shifts under his weight and hurtles to the sidewalk far below.

"Yeah," Tony interjects brusquely, "and look what _**I've**_ done. My company made weapons, big bad ones that bad guys used to do a lot of bad things." He taps his arc reactor firmly. "That's how I got this shiny new toy. Loki used you, buddy, to do bad things, just like the bad guys used my guns to do bad things. Should I spend every day feeling guilty for that?"

Clint looks at him pointedly.

"Well, shit," Tony sighs, "now I feel terrible, too. Nice going, Feathers."

They sit in silence for a moment, and Tony realizes that he really wishes he had a drink in hand. He'd actually cut back a lot lately, but at times like this he really feels like he could use one. Clint looks so despondent, so lost, that Tony can't bear it; the archer's guilt is a tangible shroud that's smothering them both.

"You know, worst case you could always use echoes to hear things," and Clint gives him a _what the hell?_ furrow so Tony clarifies, "you know, like a bat."

Despite himself, Clint breaks into a tiny grin. "Then I'd have to take you everywhere so your nonstop talking would reverberate off the walls for me," he says dryly.

"It could work," Tony mulls thoughtfully, rubbing a hand over his chin exaggeratedly an in attempt to appear like he was considering this insanely hard. "except we'd have to change your code name to like … Batman or something."

"'Batman'?" Clint asks dubiously. "That's just fucking stupid sounding. Who the hell wants to be a bat? What the hell would my abilities even be?"

"I dunno." Tony laughs at Clint's indignation. "I guess you could … own the night or some shit. And your superpower would be, well, your awesome Stark Industries Echo-Locator and your ability to fly."

"You can fly," Clint points out with a frown, and Tony grins because he sees that Clint's also actually putting some thought into this ridiculous idea. "That doesn't make you special," Clint adds, and Tony's grin wobbles a little. "It just means you have a cool suit."

"We could make you a cool suit," Tony counters quickly. "Something brown. You know, like a fruit bat."

"Brown? Who the hell has a cool _**brown**_ costume?" Clint wants to know. "Nobody."

"Purple?" Tony suggests next, and Clint grimaces in disgust.

"Purple? That's just dumb. What would I do with a purple suit? That's even worse than brown."

"You know, you're awfully bitchy for a guy who just got his ass rescued not that long ago," Tony snaps waspishly.

"Hey, I was on my way to rescue _**you**_," Clint snaps back. "I already told you that's a win for me!"

"What?!" Tony gasps outlandishly. "You've got to be friggin' kidding me, you ungrateful little - "

"How many guys did you take out?" Clint interrupts smugly. "One? Boooo! How many for me? Two! That's right, 'cuz I'm fucking **_Hawkeye,_** bitches!"

Tony rolls his eyes. "That will never catch on," he sighs gustily, and they laugh at that, genuinely laugh, their feet dangling over the edge like a couple of kids. It's a moment of healing emerging from weeks of darkness and they seize it for all it's worth, chuckling until they're laughing breathlessly, the chunks of desolate ice formed from this whole ordeal that have lodged in their chests thawing just a little.

In a few hours, the demigod of lightning will arrive, and put actions to the words of the Avengers calling for retribution for one of their own.

In a few days, everything will come to a head.

In a few weeks, Clint will find himself making a decision that he should never have had to make.

But for now, the hawk and the inventor are laughing like little boys, enjoying the moment of peace in the middle of the maelstrom.

And that's enough for right now.

OoOoOoOoOo

It appears that many readers would very much like to see Clint regain full use of his abilities, so the Muse says ... 300 reviews to get there and the Muse will then accept that challenge. lol! I feel like a vaudeville villain... am I kidding? even i'm not sure!

Special thanks to twinchaosblade for inspiring the line about Clint taking out two guys while Tony only got one. :D Yay for awesome readers!


	26. Chapter 26

Wow! Thanks for all the reviews! I really appreciate your thoughts on the matter of Clint's healing … you'll find out shortly what happens to our dear hawk. :D

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

_In a few hours, the demigod of thunder will arrive, and put actions to the words of the Avengers calling for retribution for one of their own..._

Thor, Odin's son, has missed Midguard greatly, despite the fact that both of his visits here have ultimately been less than pleasant. The god of thunder would certainly _**like**_ to visit Midguard at some time other than during a crisis; however, the destruction of the bifrost has made transporting to other worlds almost nonexistent since it is a great drain on the Allfather to summon enough energy to dispatch anyone anywhere.

And then Loki - thought lost by his family - decided to use the world of humans as the test subject for his new, Tessaract-enhanced powers and the might of the Chitauri army. Thor was again returned to Midguard, tasked with restoring both his brother and the Tessaract.

Loki had not counted on resistance, and Thor still smiles grimly at the memory of those who stood up against his brother. Thor has seldom spoken with the so-named Avengers since his return to Asgard, and the demigod finds that he misses the proud warriors; and so, he is greatly excited to be returning - however briefly - to Midguard: Tony Stark has dispatched to him a missive concerning the Avengers and requesting Thor's presence.

Thor arrives safely on Midguard atop of the roof of Tony Stark's grand tower and is immediately concerned by the shadowed and drawn faces that greet him when he strides through the large glass doors: Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, and Natasha Romanoff are sitting quietly together, an air of exhaustion permeating the room as they silently sip their coffee or stronger drinks and co-exist like people who've been through fire together and have no need nor strength remaining for unnecessary words.

The spider and the shapechanger both give the warrior a small smile of welcome, but it only serves to increase Thor's unease.

"My friends, what worries you thusly?" Thor demands, noting the absences of Steve Rogers and Clint Barton. "What has happened to the Avengers?"

They look at each other for a minute, then Stark says quietly, "There are no Avengers any more, Lethally Blonde, at least not officially."

Thor's brow crumples in great concern; without the Avengers, Loki _**would**_ have been successful in his bid for Midguard, and the humans' unfortunate playing around with the Tessaract has already alerted other predators that Midguard is utilizing advanced technology - whether they know how to properly use it or not.

Thor will not admit to feeling weakened by this news, but he finds himself gratefully accepting Banner's suggestion that he sit.

"Tell me what has transpired during my absence," he commands, and the three share an almost-amused look: none of them are accustomed to being ordered around and it seems they find the quaint notion entertaining. But they do speak, creating a timeline that begins with the disappearance of Clint Barton and weaves through the fear that Hawkeye's mind had again been usurped by Loki, uncovering treachery at SHIELD, and finally finding the nearly-dead Hawkeye and bringing him back to Stark Tower.

They fill in the gaps as they are able with Fury's threat and the disbanding of the Avengers and the warrior's heart grows heavy with grief and rage as Stark tells him of SHIELD's deliberate harming of not only one of the Avengers' own - the hawk - but also other agents used by Loki in his mad undertaking.

Banner glosses over how Barton is actually doing, but Thor can read the sorrow in their eyes and he comprehends that the archer is not well; such is to be expected, for Thor understands the power of the Tessaract better than of these three can grasp, and he knows intimately betrayal by your own.

Thor has only one time in his life felt truly helpless: kneeling in the mud and pouring rain next to a weapon he no longer had the power to lift. He'd been helpless, lost, hopeless, defenseless. As a man of strength, Thor had always felt a pull to defend the weak. After that moment, it became his lifeblood.

"Where is Steve Rogers?" Thor asks when they finally fall silent; shadows spill into the room now and drinks have been replenished many times. Stark snaps quietly, "Cap's made his own choices," and Thor takes this to mean that it is a sore subject and perhaps best discussed at another time or not at all.

Thor rises purposefully, grips Mjolner's reassuring weight. "I wish to see the Hawkeye," he says, and three pairs of defensive eyes settle on him suspiciously. "There are words we must have," Thor announces, and the spider nods tightly and rises to lead him downstairs.

Thor will not concede to feeling anxious at the upcoming confrontation. Once Loki had been remanded into Thor's custody, the warrior had avoided the hawk for the simple reason that the man had been chosen to become the precision instrument responsible for honing Loki's plans, and Thor had yet to sort out his thoughts and feelings for the brother he had grieved over after Loki had tumbled from the shattered bifrost.

He had wept. He had mourned. And then he had discovered that Loki was not lost after all, but quietly and secretly embarking on a mad quest for destruction. The knowledge tore at the future king of Asgard, for should he not have seen what was happening? Should he have allowed himself to believe that Loki had been destroyed so easily?

These are questions Thor does not know the answer to. He may never know, for although his once-beloved brother is imprisoned deep within Asgard's walls Thor has yet to visit him. Thor is strong in body and mighty of will, yet even he does not know if his heart will remain steadfastly firm when faced with his brother's quiet pleas for freedom.

The spider gestures ahead and turns to go with a shake of her red curls; Thor pushes open the door to Barton's room - a simple courtesy like knocking doesn't occur to the god of thunder - and his confused gaze falls upon the hawk who had once stood tall and proud alongside the Avengers. He has caught the hawk mid-push-up: sweat is streaming down Barton's face and his arms are trembling viciously in time with his shuddering body; he shoots Thor a glare at the interruption and lowers himself to the ground, gasping and heaving, eyes closed as he pants breathlessly.

One stormy eye cracks open. "One," Barton mutters irritably, and it's immediately clear to Thor that the man should barely be out of bed, let alone engaging in strenuous physical activity. The hawk stays face down on the floor, cheek pressed into the carpet, but he blinks and focuses on Thor challengingly.

"I'm supposed to be sleeping," he says shortly. "I can't take any more hovering, so if that's what you're here for you can just turn your ass around and walk right back outta here."

Thor allows a smile at the flash of kindred spirit. "Clint Barton," he murmurs softly, "I regret to see that you are not well."

The hawk flashes a cheerless smile, if it can be called a smile at all, and pushes himself up carefully to collapse into a leaning position against his bed, gritting his teeth and wincing and even Thor - legendary for his foolhardiness - can see that the hawk is pushing himself too hard, too fast.

"Shit happens," Barton says grimly, and he doesn't flinch when he asks, "How's that asshole brother of yours?"

Thor immediately comprehends the implication of the hawk. "Imprisoned deep within Asgard, guarded by many strong warriors," he assures, and he carefully ignores the worn relief that crosses the hawk's pale face. They regard each other uncomfortably for a moment, Barton on the floor, Thor standing just inside the door awkwardly, and Thor notices the hawk's fist clenching whitely in his lap.

The hawk is nervous.

"Well, I don't really perform any more, so if you're here for a show I'm afraid you missed it by about twenty years," Barton finally says dryly; the hawk is watching Thor keenly, waiting for him to announce his purpose, but Thor is unusually uncertain how to proceed.

Fortunately, Thor has never been a great tactician; he just _**does**_.

"I have done you a great disservice, Clint Barton," Thor finally sighs, the almost-apology coming uncomfortably from his proud lips though he truly means it. "I should have sought you out sooner, for we now share a bond." Thor smiles faintly at the hawk's uncertain look, and adds in a voice somber and quiet and not at all with his normal boisterously loud and powerful warrior volume, "We were both deceived by my brother, only you had far less choice in the matter than I."

"But I still had _**some**_ choice, didn't I?" Barton retorts immediately, and Thor sees the fear, the desperation underlying his words. He shakes his head, wishing for words to properly convey his intent - words ironically that Loki undoubtedly would have had no trouble finding.

"No, friend, you did not. The power of the Tessaract is great: even my brother was not wholly unscathed by its influence."

Barton falls silent, clearly contemplating. The shadows don't fade completely from his face, but it appears to the demigod that the harsh lines lift a fraction. Thus Thor deems it appropriate to move on to the matter that has stirred his heart since Tony Stark mentioned it: how could it not, when he sees a fellow warrior reduced to the pale, scarred and bruised weakling that the hawk has become?

"There is yet the matter of restitution by those who have wronged you."

To Thor's surprise, Barton looks uncomfortable by this thought. "Do you not wish restitution, Clint Barton?" he asks curiously. "You have been severely aggrieved, my friend, it is natural and just to want restoration of your loss."

"I already told Tony," the hawk says dully, "it's pointless. It's not going to make anything better. I just want to be _**done**_ with the whole ordeal."

Thor hesitates, then gestures to the sweat beading the hawk's face, a clear indicator of the pain he's still in, the yellowed patches of skin where the last of the bruises stand out against too-pale flesh. "Yet it will be a long time before you are 'done,' will it not, my friend?" Barton bites his lip, and Thor continues, "You were not the only one subjugated by the Tessaract; do you think those that who harmed you stopped only with you?" Barton looks at him, surprise overshadowing the murky confusion of his eyes. "You can stop them," Thor says gently, "Or you can let them continue to harm the blameless for their own vengeful enjoyment … and where is the justice in that, Clint Barton?"

When Thor finally leaves the hawk still sitting silently by his bed, the demigod is not surprised to see the spider waiting outside the room, not surprised that she stayed to listen to every word spoken: her dedication to her partner would demand no less. And she has written down every name the hawk uttered, even though Thor remembers them perfectly, and Thor recognizes and relishes the vindictive promise in her eyes:

Defend the helpless.

OoOoOoOoOo

Clint sits quietly, thinking on Thor's words. It's true; he's been so wrapped in his own misery he admits that he hasn't thought about the other agents taken with him, so despite his misgivings he'd given Thor the names - all but one, all but the one name he cannot bring himself to incriminate even though she is ultimately responsible for the brunt of his SHIELD-induced misery.

Clint doesn't sleep better that night.

Clint doesn't sleep better the next night when a grimly pleased Natasha informs him that his accounts have been settled, that those who wronged him and others will not do so again.

And Clint doesn't sleep better the night after that, because he rolls over in the middle of the night and Loki is _right fucking there_, pale skin gleaming in the dark, his fingers drifting over the bandage on Clint's shoulder in lazy circles.

"You told, little hawk," he purrs gleefully. "More red in your ledger."

Clint barely makes it to the attached bathroom, stumbling and staggering, before he's vomiting up the little he'd eaten that day.

And Loki sits right beside him.

OoOoOoOoOo

Please review! Pleeeeeease? lol


	27. Chapter 27

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and continues to do so! You really contribute to keeping updates for this story coming. :)

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

_In a few days, everything will come to a head…_

Part One

Clint stares at the glowing screen in horrified disbelief, the acid chewing at his stomach making him hunch over reflexively even as he tries blatantly to ignore the agony in favor of focusing on Tony's laptop during this too-seldom-these-days few minutes of solitude he's been miraculously given. He's used the time to get into the SHIELD databases; Tony had showed him once how to do it, right after Loki, when Clint had desperately needed to know _how many _and _who._

The archer reads the bright text again, willing the words to be wrong, willing himself to wake up - he needs to wake up now and he can because this is just a dream, right?

Clint squinches his eyes closed and snaps them open again, blinking quickly.

"Wake up, Barton!" he growls determinedly, but nothing happens despite his efforts and Clint can't help but feel bitter. "_What the hell_?" he demands to no one in particular. "It's only a fucking dream when something _**good**_ is actually happening?" Clint snarls and turns back to the screen in a huff, instinctively wrapping an arm around his middle because sometimes it seems like the pressure helps dull the unending ache.

Nothing he can do about _**this**_, though, and Clint is furious that it's been kept from him all these long weeks while he's been sequestered here at Stark's. Clint's still glaring at the screen, his own small picture staring nonchalantly back at him, when he hears Tony's shuffling step in the hall.

Clint rounds on the man as soon as Tony enters, and the dark scowl he levels at the genius actually freezes Tony mid-step guiltily, clutching a bag of something so greasy the bottom of the paper bag is actually saturated and structurally compromised. Clint ignores the impatient rumble of his stomach at the delicious aroma; he leans against the desk in what he hopes looks casual but is actually designed to ease some of the pressure off of his legs.

"What the hell is this?" he demands brusquely, gesturing to Tony's open laptop.

"Uh, it's a computer, smartybird," Tony shoots back with a roll of his brown eyes. He hefts the bag cheerfully: "Look, I brought gyros!" He pronounces it "gy-ros" to make Clint smile, but the archer can't comply because there's nothing humorous about what he's just read in his own damn file and that's currently taking up all of his emotional allowance.

"Not funny, Tony," Clint says sharply, pointing at the screen. Clint's agitation and dread are overwhelming and he pushes off the desk even though he knows it's a bad idea because his crutches are still tucked against the headboard of the bed. The archer wobbles a little more than he'd like to admit, but the pain of his staggering pacing helps clear his head enough that he can focus.

He makes it three steps before he has to turn around and head back toward the safety of his chair, but he hopes it was enough to make his point. Clint lowers himself carefully to sit at the small cherry desk - they both know it's because he doesn't have the energy to stand any longer - quietly and patiently, and Tony gives him a pointed look with just enough concession that Clint's satisfied even though his legs are shaking so badly he has to tuck his chair up under the desk in an effort to keep Tony from noticing how exhausted and sick he actually is right now.

The inventor finally glances at the screen, and Clint watches his face wash out in grey.

"Well?" Clint wants to know.

"We were trying to protect you," Tony says quietly.

"Yeah, well, maybe I didn't need protecting," Clint hisses vehemently, and for the first time during this whole process of healing and hovering and hurting he starts to feel a bubble of hate growing in his chest, beating thickly against his ribs and making it hard to breathe. He _**hates**_ his weakness, and he hates himself for being weak and making people give up their lives to watch over his.

Tony isn't taking any guff from the archer, though; they've been through too much in the last several weeks and he can peg the weakened assassin with ease since Clint hasn't had the energy to really put his usual walls up to keep people out. Tony inclines his head at the shambling and painfully short path Clint had tried to walk. "Yeah, well, I kinda think you did, Feathers," he retorts.

"'MIA? Threat risk: high?" Clint growls spitefully. "Why the fuck wouldn't you tell me about this?"

"We didn't even know if you were going to _**live**_," Tony snaps back. "We kinda figured we'd sort this all out if you actually _**did**_, but until then it wasn't too high on the priority list."

"Well, I did live," Clint says stubbornly. "Let's go see Fury and get this sorted."

Tony's expression is suddenly a bizarrely comical mixture of dread and anticipation - but mostly dread. He scuffs the toe of his expensive shoe across the floor, fiddles with the bag still clenched in his fist.

Clint's sharp and immediately asks, "What?" in a dull tone but it's clear he's expecting a prompt and honest answer.

"There may be … a _**few**_ things I should to fill you in on," Tony mutters defensively, "but let me start by saying that it's not _**entirely**_ my fault … or even a _**little**_ my fault… "

"Fine. Make it fast."

Tony tells Clint that the Avengers have been disbanded and that Steve has gone to work for SHIELD full-time and that's why he's not around any more, though Tony does mention that Cap still asks for daily updates on Clint's condition from Bruce: ever the team leader, even when there's no team to lead. Clint feels a little stupid, a little betrayed; he had just assumed Rogers had been on assignment somewhere and that's why he wasn't here.

Fuck, he's been a selfish bastard.

A blazing realization rolls across Clint's mind as he absently kneads the scarred flesh of his thigh through his flannels, his fingertips brushing small raised scars that he only is responsible for, and he unthinkingly utters the words aloud:

"This is all my fault." All his hopelessly, astoundingly, how-the-hell-can-he-fix-this? fault. Phil would _**never**_ have let him fuck up this badly. "We have to talk to Fury now."

"In your _jammies_?" Tony mocks in amusement with a wave at Clint's flannels and Henley and Clint scowls; he knows Tony's trying to distract him.

"Of course not." He'll stagger to the dresser where Pepper has been storing his real clothes as soon as Tony leaves and can't see his pitiful attempts at looking presentable.

Tony shakes his head; he's abandoned the greasy sack of cold, congealed food and has moved on to making Clint's bed, shaking the sheets out and smoothing them in a small gesture of thoughtfulness he doesn't even think about any more.

"I don't think that's a good idea," is his opinion, and Clint snaps a hand toward the laptop screen sharply. "Fuck that!" he barks. "We go now or I go alone." But as he says this, Clint realizes that he needs his partner beside him to get through this; he needs her where she's been without fail since that shitty mission where she'd stitched his back and leg up and he'd kept her from focusing on the rows of tiny, silent bodies they'd been too late to save. "Where's Natasha?" he asks softly, and Tony sighs.

"She's already there. Apparently she and Thor and Banner made … a bit of a mess," and from his tone, it's clear he doesn't approve, but it's unclear if it's what they did, or because he was left out of it.

Clint's tormenting unease and guilt are growing. His teammates, his … friends … had risked a great deal for him, and now they were in Fury's office awaiting their punishment for it. This was spiraling so far out of control - he never should have given Thor those names, he never should have tried to come back to Stark's, he should have just kept walking.

He wishes again that Hill _**had**_ killed him, because it sure as hell would have saved the rest of the team a fucking lot of trouble.

They make the trip to SHIELD in silence and Clint feels horrible, awkwardly, nauseatingly self-conscious as he crutches across base, and immediately the whispers start behind his back. The guards at the gate want to clap him in irons and haul his ass off to the brig, but a quick call to Fury for orders means only six armed escorts to the Director's office instead of a squad taking them directly into custody.

Clint had thought the stares and whispers were bad before this. Now was much, much worse.

He wants to walk proudly with his chin high so he can glare into submission anyone who dares look at them sideways, but that's not gonna happen so Clint focuses on keeping his footing steady as he hobbles along, Tony at his side smirking defiantly at their guards and anyone else whose eye he happens to catch. It makes Clint smile, though his stomach is churning as they approach Fury's office, where his teammates are in a lot of trouble because of him.

He almost makes it.

They pass the dark and closed door to Phil's old office and Clint thinks his throat is swelling shut because all of the sudden he can't fucking breathe and _oh fuck_ his knees are buckling but Tony's arm loops under his elbow and Clint tries to focus on that and not the way his breath is biting at his chest painfully _shit shit shit keep it together Barton!_ and one of his crutches slides sideways on the polished floor and God he's so fucking humiliated but he barely feels it under the excruciating agony that's eating him alive at this moment as he burns in hell, burning as he slowly slips to the floor.

_This is all my fault._

He'd been making progress.

Had been.

But this is too much.

"Clint!"

The archer vaguely comprehends that his partner is here; she hisses in his ear and he knows he needs to keep it together for her. "Come on," she instructs and it occurs to Clint that there's worry in her voice which means he _**really**_ has to get a hold of himself because Natasha Romanoff does _**not**_ worry. Natasha's got him on one side and Tony's got the other and together they haul him into Fury's office to get away from the shocked open-mouthed stares at this final visual of an unraveling legend.

OoOoOoOoOo

Fury's still addressing Banner and Thor but when Natasha and Tony drag the barely-conscious and gibbering Clint Barton in he immediately stops and moves around the huge desk to direct them to the large, plush couch alongside the near wall.

Barton grabs his arm as they try to wrestle him down and get him to breathe; Fury looks down into a familiar pair of eyes though he's never seen them panicked like this before, has never seen tears streaming unchecked down a face ten shades paler than last he'd seen it.

And he'd never heard the words from the cocky smartass Barton that now fall from the archer's shaking lips:

"_I'm so sorry, sir,_" Barton rasps, desperate to be heard, begging to be forgiven.

Fury's sorry too, because he'd allowed this to happen, he hadn't realized that Barton was so compromised when he'd decided to use the man to root out the vigilantes within SHIELD and then left it up to Hill to see it done. He'd sacrificed one man for the many; a decision he made more often he could count though that didn't make it any easier. He'd thought Barton could manage without listening to what the psych department was actually telling him about the agent.

He's sorry that he hadn't paid more attention when Hawkeye had disappeared; no matter how busy Fury thought he'd been, Barton had always given his SHIELD his all once he'd committed to the job that had probably saved his life. Fury had owed the man no less than to find him, and he'd fallen through.

And Fury's sorry that he'd allowed his festering anger at Barton for the man's unwilling hand in Coulson's death to dull the dedication that the Director swears to each and every agent.

"Hill!" Fury snaps, and she joins him from where she'd been silently standing beside his desk as he'd interrogated three former Avengers about "suspicious" events transpiring around base: _Romanoff's Reign of Terror_, it had been labeled.

Fury turns to make sure the medics are on their way as Hill steps in as ordered to take his place. Fury's barking into his comm so he doesn't see the way Barton's shaking increases to wide-eyed violent trembling as soon as Hill's hands replace Fury's to try and keep the archer still until the panic attack subsides.

Fury doesn't notice, but the grim redhead clasping Barton's hand firmly does.

Banner somehow stays in control over the other guy this time and manages to get Barton calmed down, and eventually Fury tries to clear them all out of his office so he can exchange words in private with the now extremely embarrassed archer. They refuse to leave, however, all of them in the ready stance like video game characters waiting to be selected, and Hill stays by Fury, prepared to defend her boss if necessary.

And then Barton quietly asks for privacy, and his strange crew reluctantly accedes although Romanoff exits only after Barton says something softly in Russian and the Black Widow waits until Hill precedes her out of the office before sauntering out defiantly.

Fury and Barton stare at each other quietly, and Fury feels a sharp pang of regret at the fact that one of his sharpest agents, his best assets, has been reduced to a shaking shell of a man who has to use Fury's desk to keep himself upright once he struggles to his feet to face the Director.

Guilt is heavy on both sides. There will be no fresh starts, no clean slates for either of them. It's just a question of where from here. Finally Fury says,

"Coulson was a hell of a man, wasn't he?"

And Barton laughs a little though there's clearly sadness tucked behind it. "Yes, he was, sir. One of the best."

Fury nods, a decision slowly pushing to the front of his mind. "_**One**_ of the best," he agrees, regarding the shorter man solemnly. He wonders if he can convey through his gaze that he _knows_, that Rogers and Romanoff and Banner have filled him in on Barton's suffering at the hands of those who should have had his back. He doesn't want to say it aloud because that's not how he works, and that's what he had Coulson for if words like that really needed to be said. In the end, SHIELD had failed Clint Barton. _**He**_ had failed him.

"I understand that you have a long road ahead of you, Agent Barton," he says quietly, using the man's title out of respect, already making a mental note to amend Barton's file to honorable discharge. "But know that when you're ready … "

Barton nods crisply. "Thank you, sir," and neither of them bother to say 'if' even though they know that's probably how this will end. Hawkeye no longer trusts SHIELD, and most of SHIELD doesn't trust him, either.

"Agent Barton," Fury stops the archer as he turns toward the door. "I'm sorry."

Barton nods once, slowly, and then the infamous Hawkeye carefully and proudly walks out of Fury's office for what will likely be the last time.

And Fury knows that SHIELD is the worse for their loss.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

Please review! With Hawkeye on top? XD I really appreciate it and it inspires the Muse. And speaking of…

So I learned my lesson when simultaneously writing/posting multiple stories burnt out my Star Wars Muse (hopefully only temporarily, because I miss my dear little Obi-Wan Kenobi), and I am determined not to do that to my Avengers muse even though many different plot bunnies are clamoring for attention. I've isolated the four most persistent and formed ideas … if one of them sticks out as the next fic you'd be interested in seeing from me, drop me a pm or include it in a review if you're inclined to leave one (please do! :D) (and I guess, conversely, you could also say they all sound awful and I should just leave the Avengers alone.)

Here's the synops, and yes, I realize they all sound incredibly cheerful … ;)

My Kingdom Come

"I think I've made my terms quite clear. Deliver Agent Barton to me or the others die." The demigod smiles fondly. "I find that I miss my little hawk."

Teamfic, slightly angsty but also BAMF!Clint and twisted!Loki because he's just so delicious to write.

One for the Team

Clint and Steve are sent undercover in a male harem; of _**course**_ Clint's taking the lead on this one, because there's no way Baby Blushing Blue Eyes over here is gonna be able to do it …

Clint, Steve, and I **swear** I do not know where this plot bunny came from.

The Screams All Sound the Same

A brainwashed Natasha Romanoff returns from a mission devoted to one purpose: take out the infamous Captain America. Standing in her way: her partner, Clint Barton.

Teamfic, Clint, Natasha

Where My Demons Hide

They had all noticed that for whatever reason, the Hulk seemed to have a soft spot for Hawkeye. Threats to the archer were immediately assessed and dealt with, usually by being smashed into oblivion. But the Hulk has never labeled Bruce Banner a threat before… Things go from bad to worse, then the _**really**_ bad guys show up …

Teamfic, Clint, Tony, Bruce


	28. Chapter 28

Thank you to everyone who took a minute to review and also those who suggested the next story ... I'm really excited about posting the next one, but this one has just a little bit to go yet. However, one major issue is about to be resolved ...

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

_In a few days, everything will come to a head…_

Part Two

Natasha Romanoff is Clint Barton's partner.

She's seen his eyes - his stormy, ever-changing eyes - proud, sharp, spiteful, regretful.

She's felt his hands - his callused, rough hands - squeeze hers reassuringly, clench in fists of rage, move over her wounds, gently binding, stitching, soothing.

And she's watched his scarred, thin body fight desperately to regain all that he's lost. He's still so far, far fallen from where he was and it pains her with a sharply bitter ache to watch his daily struggle, even as she's proud he hasn't given in.

Natasha Romanoff has seen Clint Barton playful, wounded, ruthless, amused.

She's seen him worried and scared,

but until today, she's never seen him terrified half out of his mind.

He doesn't even mean to show it - Clint is very good at keeping secrets - and it's barely noticeable, just a little extra flinch of pain, a little more trembling on top of the already panicked shuddering rolling through his twitching body, but of course Natasha notices even as she keeps up the familiar words they've been using to get him through his panic attacks. She's not surprised he's having one here on base, where good and bad memories have nearly equal measure for them both.

Natasha keeps her expression composed because right now she's being strong for Clint. They _**have**_ to get him through this before the medics Fury's calling for arrive; the archer certainly won't thank his team if anyone else - especially Fury or SHIELD personnel - sees how ravaged his body actually is. Her narrowed green-eyed gaze follows the new set of hands securing Clint down to their owner, and Natasha frowns as gears start turning in her head:

Why is Clint Barton terrified of Maria Hill?

OoOoOoOoOo

It's been an extremely long day.

Hill closes the door to her quarters and leans against it wearily for just a moment; the only weakness she'll allow herself to show is behind closed doors, when only she is witness to it.

She's been too busy lately, and she doesn't know how much longer she can keep it all going. She's essentially doing the work of two additional people right now - Coulson, yet to be replaced, and the Director, who's ceded half of his responsibilities to her (_but of __**course**__ she can handle them, Sir,)_ while he fights his own battles with the Council and missing/defected/rogue agents. Fury is weakened, Coulson is dead … Hill clearly sees that she's the only strength left in their once-solid triad of SHIELD leadership.

And she can lay the blame for the enfeebled SHIELD directly at the feet of one man.

She should have killed Barton when she'd had the chance.

Seeing him today certainly hadn't helped, even though it was horrifically gratifying to see that he hadn't escaped unscathed, that even that fucking prick Stark hadn't been able to work miracles this time and that Clint Barton would bear the marks of retribution for the rest of his damned life. She'd heard from Rogers that Barton may never be able to use his bow again, and she hoped viciously the rumor was true.

Hill had known that Stark had finally located where they'd been keeping Barton and taken him back to Stark Tower - easy enough to keep from the Director because she hadn't heard a word from the two of them until Stark had nearly throttled Stevenson in a rage over Barton's injuries. Stark's loss of composure had actually _**helped **_Hill: she'd realized that Stevenson was a liability with his own grudge against the Avengers - he'd almost taken Iron Man out at one point - and under the guise of his 'traumatic experience' with Stark had had him relocated to a small facility in Vienna with a nice off-base house and a pay raise that should enable him to happily live out the rest of his stint with SHIELD.

Hill opens her eyes, tiredly pushes herself upright, and goes to shower, trying to scrub away the invisible blood on her hands and the memory of Barton's frightened eyes as he looked at her this afternoon. It gives her a rush, knowing he's afraid of her, and she wonders if this is part of why the assassins do what they do: the undeniable pleasure of causing a living soul to fear you.

Hill savors the memory. Any guilt she'd had about what they'd done to Barton had bled away over the weeks as she watched SHIELD start to crumble from within.

She shuts off the water, towels off and dresses, thinks maybe she'll go out for dinner tonight.

But Natasha Romanoff, her scarlet locks backlit by the warm desk lamp like some kind of flame-haired avenging angel, is waiting for her in the living area.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Agent Hill?" Romanoff asks, softly, deadly, and Hill spares the second to wonder if there are only minutes of her life remaining.

So she attacks.

Her fist barely clips Romanoff's jaw as the assassin spins out of the way, her forearm impacting against the back of Hill's neck as she does so. Hill stumbles, her eyes searching frantically for her sidearm as she straightens and comes at Romanoff again. She manages to block the kick Romanoff aims at her ribcage, hands sweeping down to brush Romanoff's boot aside then turning to grasp the assassin's ankle firmly. She twists, but the thick leather blunts most of the damage she could have caused.

Romanoff's flattened palm catches Hill on the chin, snapping her head back and Hill feels her teeth slam together as blood fills her mouth. She instinctively flails out with a fist that Romanoff catches easily and pulls around to her back, lifting enough that Hill has to stand on the tips of her toes to ease the burning pressure in her shoulder.

"I have nothing to say to you!" Hill spits, bubbles of crimson dripping from her lips. "Barton is a - " There's a blur of movement Hill barely registers, then Romanoff's garrote - fashioned from one of Barton's old bowstrings - is slicing against her neck. Hill is no longer thinking about how pleasurable it is to instill fear in another.

Hill slowly closes her mouth as she feels the first trickles of warmth slide down her collarbone. "Consider your next words carefully," Romanoff hisses into her ear.

"What exactly do you intend to do?" Hill asks, her voice firm despite the tremors she's fighting and she flashes to wondering if this was how Barton felt: outwardly defiant, inwardly terrified. She hopes so.

"I _intend_ to kill you," Romanoff says simply, and Hill is pressed so close to the assassin she can feel how completely calm and ready to do exactly that Romanoff is.

Hill arches an eyebrow, desperate to match Romanoff's composure. "Oh? Should I find it ironic that Barton had to send an assassin? He couldn't do the job himself?"

Romanoff snorts dryly. "Hawkeye didn't send me. He didn't say a goddamn word about you."

"Then what proof do you have?" Hill wants to know, and she admits being this close to death is making her ballsy, otherwise there's no way in hell she'd be taunting the Black Widow.

"I know Hawkeye," Romanoff answers, and she's so deadly certain that Hill knows there's no changing her mind. "Now, I'll give you a choice: you can tell Fury _**everything**_, and then I kill you, or I can just kill you right now and you die with a guilty conscience."

"It's not much of a choice," Hill says caustically, shifting uncomfortably while trying to barely move. It's the wrong thing to say.

"I saw what you did to Clint," Romanoff hisses, tightening her grip. "Did you give _**him**_ a choice? Did he _**choose**_ to have his own goddamn arrows rammed into his body? Did you ask _**him**_ what he wanted each day: choked, shot, beaten and everything else you fucking did to him?"

Hill stays silent; there's no excuse she can offer, no solid justification she can give. Romanoff's voice is husky in her ear and Hill wonders if she's crying over her damaged partner, but she doesn't have to look to see if Romanoff's eyes are dry: the Black Widow is far too professional for that.

Only …

There's a slight waver in the assassin's voice as she asks softly, "Do you want a clear conscience, Agent Hill?" and Hill thinks back past Barton, past the others they'd taken revenge on; she thinks on things she's done, deeds she's covered and buried, all in the name of duty.

"I'll never have a clear conscience, Agent Romanoff," she answers calmly, resolve firm. "Much like yourself."

Romanoff pauses, then Hill feels her shake her head. "So be it," she says quietly, and Hill has a second to wonder if the assassin has picked up a flair for the darkly dramatic over the years.

And then she feels nothing at all.

OoOoOoOoOo

Squeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Bourne Legacy today! Happy Bourne day everyone! lol!

And please review to see more of the Trials of Clint Barton, AKA Slipping. ;D


	29. Chapter 29

**Thank you** faithful readers and new readers! I love your feedback - it definitely encourages the Muse and prompts updates (hint, hint ;)

I'm curious if the cry will be 'death to the Muse!' at the end of this chapter, so we'll see. *crosses fingers that's not the case*

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

The first thing Clint Barton does when the familiar nightmare wakes him is to clamber out of bed groggily and limp to the bathroom to look into his mirror. He shakily tells himself not to worry because it's just another damn dream and he's silly for doing this, but he's just checking so he can laugh to himself about it when his normal tired eyes stare back at him.

Only,

This time,

They don't.

Tonight, Clint looks in the mirror and sees, finally, what he's been dreading month after month, what he's been cutting into his skin day after day to assure himself isn't real, what his own pleading, raspy screams wake him from night after night because he sees it in his sleeping mind - now he sees it in his mirror as he blinks hastily to adjust his vision to the warm light of the bathroom:

Bright, shining, Tessaract blue eyes glaring back at him, their dead, empty stare waiting for _his_ commands.

The archer gasps and scuttles away from the sink, the desperate choking litany _I'm still me I'm still me still me still me_ pounding through his head like a jackhammer, falling soundlessly from his lips as his back hits the wall behind him.

The hawk's stumbling, limping, staggering to the night table and his skittering fingers wrap around the handle of the blade tucked inside, and as he places the honed tip between his ribs desperately the chant _I'm still me still me still me_ changes to a soft, mocking yet adoring _go ahead, little hawk, do it_ _do it do it - _

_Do it!_

Clint pushes the blade in.

OoOoOoOoOo

Breathe.

Nock.

Release.

He lets the shiny arrow loose despite its wild shaking against the taut bowstring, but even with this ridiculous child's bow he immediately knows it won't hit the target a shameful thirty feet away.

It doesn't.

It doesn't even come close, clattering instead against the far wall and plunking embarrassingly to the floor where it has the gall to lie there mockingly and taunt him for his failure to pull it together.

Clint growls softly, awkwardly hefts Tony's custom-made kiddie bow again. All right, he concedes, it's not exactly a kiddie bow, but it sure as hell feels like it compared to the collapsible that's been by his side for a longass time. He just doesn't have the strength any more to use the 250-lb force draw.

Clint settles another arrow in place, ignores the bite along the back of his shoulderblades, and grits his teeth as this one doesn't make the target either. He switches draw hands - he's just a touch weaker with his right-handed draw from the first time his shoulder got jacked up years ago, but he used to be almost as equally good a shot this way - and this time a stabbing fire drills through his side and the bandages he's hastily slapped over the hole he'd carved in his ribcage when he wasn't _himself _aren't going to hold any longer; a warm drizzle of blood slides across the flat plane of his stomach, leaving a stinging sticky red trail against his already sweat-dampened grey t-shirt.

He's so fucking tired, and tired of being fucked up. Pulling his own knife out of his body earlier? Reeeeeeeally fucked up.

"Damn it to _**hell**_," he sighs, because even though he wants to shout his frustration, scream his anger, vent his pain, the archer - if he can even think of himself that way any longer - just doesn't have the energy. He also wants to throw the bow itself at the silently accusing target in a raging temper tantrum he sort of feels he's allowed after all the shit he's been through lately, but he knows that Tony went to a lot of trouble to make him a bow that does most of the work, and a tiny, almost completely buried childlike part of Clint wants to make the bow work so Tony will be pleased and everyone will just quit hovering and they can all go back to their lives.

Even if _**his**_ life now is a frightening mess of pain and confusion and voices telling him to do things he really oughtn't be doing to himself.

Clint twists one of the purple arrows - Tony's idea of a joke after hearing Clint's opinion on the color purple - between his fingers, his attention drifting to the glittering sharpness of the arrowhead. Almost without thinking, he gently pokes the pad of his index finger against the point, watching intently as blood bubbles up around this newest self-inflicted puncture. There's something soothing about it, something calming and almost hypnotizing about the bright red droplets swelling against the silver point…

"Clint Barton, what are you doing?"

Thor sounds curious, and Clint almost drops the arrow guiltily.

"I don't know," the archer says honestly. He doesn't have the will to lie right now. Clint's shoulders slump, hands dangling hopelessly at his side. "Whatever the voices in my head tell me to do." He means it as a throwaway joke, isn't even sure why he says it in that weakly amused tone that even Thor for all his unfamiliarity with Midguardians can see right through.

Shit.

Thor's large hands are suddenly wrapped around his face and Clint gasps, immediately trying to back away as the demigod's piercing blue gaze searches deep into his own. The warrior _**towers**_ over the slight archer, and this puts Clint even more on edge as memories tear at him in his weakness, but his struggles are the shaking of a leaf within the Thor's iron grasp.

What Thor sees makes him frown, and this panics Clint even more.

"I was just kidding about that," he says weakly, because all this time Clint has assumed that it's him - the voices, the faces, the harm he's done himself - it's just him and his own fucked-up way of dealing with this.

Thor disagrees.

"Clint Barton, my friend," he says softly, and his voice is so full of pity and sorrow it makes Clint squirm, "The Tessaract still lives within you."

Now Clint's suddenly grateful for the hold Thor hastily moves to his arms carefully, because his knees go so fucking weak he can't keep himself up.

"What?" he rasps sharply.

Thor shakes his great blonde head. "Again I have failed you, my friend. I should have thought … " he trails off, looking worried and hesitant and that makes the knot in Clint's stomach tighten further. Thor comes to a decision, for he says gently, "I myself know very little about the lasting effects of the Tessaract's power. Even the Allfather does not fully know how it has been fashioned to control men. But there is … one … who may be able to help us."

Clint doesn't have to ask. "Loki," he whispers, and he feels like all the blood is washing from his body, leaving him pale and shaking. "I can't do that," he croaks. "I can't ... I can't ... _him_ ... "

"My friend," Thor murmurs softly, interrupting Clint's stuttering protests, "You are tormenting yourself. Though he has caused you great pain, my brother may be able to release you from this endless suffering." The demigod looks into Clint's stormy eyes, sees the shame, the hate, the uncertainty warring there with the desperation to be _sane._

It's not a choice anyone should have to make.

"The decision is up to you, hawk."

OoOoOoOoOo

Ohhhhhhh man, what _**should**_ Clint do?


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's random note:** It occurred to me the other day to wonder how many people checked out this story because they thought it was about Clint battling zombies. Anyone still reading Slipping do that? But I'm super-terrible at summaries, so I feel like if I tried to write another one to describe this fic it'd look basically like this:

"Angsty Clint Barton whump, lots of angsty teamfic character-building and talking and Loki's a bastard. Read and review, please!"

XD or something like that

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

"No. Absolutely not."

"It's a ridiculous idea!"

"Well, what other choice does he have?"

"He shouldn't have to do it, though - !"

"Can't we just Skype him? What technological century are you Asgardians living in, anyway? I mean, if the capes and hammers didn't already make it obvious…"

Clint listens quietly to the voices, the voices talking about him, and he dully wonders what agreement they'll reach concerning his welfare. He personally has existed in a numb sort of awareness since Thor informed him that goddamn _**Loki**_ is his best shot to regain his sanity, and despite Clint's intense discomfort with the idea of sharing this wonderful news with anyone, he's grudgingly allowed Thor to explain to the rest of the kids why Clint might be taking a little field trip to Asgard; the archer figures he owes them all that at least, considering how much time, effort, and enjoyment for life they've already sacrificed on his wildly undeserving behalf.

The others know that Clint's still having trouble with nightmares, that his physical recovery is slow and his outlook is nothing to write home about.

But they don't know that the archer's constantly hearing voices, frequently seeing things, that he's near-paralyzed by horrific dreams every night - and that he's apparently still infected by the Tessaract.

So he'll let Thor tell them about the Tessaract, because Thor can sum up his suggestion they question Loki in the most succinct way possible and no one will have to see Clint's humiliating stuttering and self-conscious way of broaching the topic himself. He'll let Thor do it, because Clint doesn't know if he can do it himself. Doesn't know if he can keep himself from telling them things He. Can not. Must not. Tell Them when he sees that they're actually listening, that they care, because:

Thor will give him that look he's becoming quite used to, that expression of heavy sorrow as he tries to comprehend how his own once dearly loved brother could be such a monster.

Tony will try to make an awkward joke that doesn't quite work - even he can't make this funny.

Bruce will pat his shoulder, murmur words of sympathy, and his eyes might even spark green if the Hulk has any inkling of what Clint is quietly sharing. Clint doesn't know how he made it on the Other Guy's protection radar, but it's not really a bad place to be at all for a non-superhero with a tendency to jump off or get pushed off of very tall buildings.

Natasha …

Natasha might never fucking touch him again.

He wouldn't blame her.

So he sits on the couch by his partner - although he supposes she's still his _partner_ in the same way he's still an _archer_ - and he's carefully dressed himself in his black cargo pants and t-shirt, with his jacket thrown on to cover the extent of muscle atrophy they all know is there but doesn't really fit with his _I'm fucking __**fine**__, __**really**_ theme, and listens to Thor and tries not to shudder.

Nope. He can't do this. He can't go. He thought he'd be strong enough, but he isn't. He just isn't. He'll just leave Loki a voicemail…

Clint blinks slowly when he realizes they're all looking at him expectantly. "Um, what?" he asks weakly, ignoring the burning flush crawling up his neck.

"I said, what do _**you**_ want to do, Feathers?" Tony repeats slowly, peering at him over the coffee table almost clinically as he leans forward, gaze narrowing in that way Tony does when he's trying to confirm what he already suspects.

"And I said he's not in a position to make a rational decision about this!" Natasha snaps, shifting closer to Clint protectively. "What the hell kind of sense does this make for him to have to do this?" And Clint's grateful to her, because he knows that she knows what it's like to have someone play with your head, to scrape out who you are and pour something dark and horrifying back in and then leave you to deal with the consequences. She knows, and that's why her hand moves to his lower back, comforting and kneading sore muscles there. He absently hopes she'll move to his shoulders next, because he certainly didn't do himself any favors playing around with Tony's kiddie bow, but he doubts she will because the others would see it and she's got her Black Widow thing going right now.

Bruce ignores the ongoing debate between Tony and Natasha and cuts to the point. "Is there another option, Clint? Will you - eventually - be all right if you don't do this?" The way Bruce is looking at him flashes Clint back to the times he felt guilty as a child, back before guilt became a liability he could no longer afford, and he wonders what Bruce thinks he knows about him.

Clint's heart lurches. What Bruce, now his primary doctor, _suspects_.

"I, um, I don't … " his voice comes out as a strangled whisper he despises the sound of. The archer clears his throat, tries to sound less pathetic to his own ears. "Thor thinks it's the best option," he says firmly.

"Not what he asked, Clint," Tony says, and no nicknames and no joking means Clint had better straighten the hell up and say exactly what he means because, despite his deceptively laidback nature, you do not bullshit Tony Stark.

Clint really wishes he'd put more thought into this idea, taken the time to scrutinize and plan all angles before allowing Thor to bring this to the team's attention, because in truth he's still dazed by the idea. The thought of being anywhere near Loki chills his blood, but the thought of his own dead shining blue eyes in the mirror terrifies him even more. Once again not having the capacity for rational thought terrifies him. Coming back to himself to see he's bleeding all over the carpet and _**he's**_ the one with the knife in his hand terrifies him.

The thought of what Loki could make him do to Natasha, or Tony, or Bruce goes far beyond terrified.

"Clint?" Natasha prompts; worry is making her shadowed, but she's glaring at him in a fiercely protective way that says all he has to do is hint that this isn't what he wants and she'll clear the room.

Clint hides his white-knuckled fists under his thighs, straightens his shoulders. "I can do this," he says, and he's pretty fucking proud of himself that he actually sounds confident he can. "It really isn't much of a choice if Loki's still digging around in my brain somewhere."

The archer senses the collective exhale in the room though no one looks particularly happy about his decision. Clint can relate - he's _**definitely**_ not happy about it.

"It is agreed, then!" Thor announces; he claps an approving hand on Clint's shoulder and the archer's vision greys - he may just pass out at the pain that ratchets around his body from the force of Thor's friendly gesture. "You are a strong warrior, Clint Barton. We shall leave at first light, and we shall see this done."

"Well, you're not going alone," Tony says adamantly, and the rest of Clint's team nods in grim acknowledgement. Clint smiles a little tiredly; now he's just doing his best to appear Completely Confident in his decision.

"Let's get you to bed, then," Natasha murmurs; she reaches for his right fist, pressed under his black-clad thigh, and gently uncurls his white, bloodless fingers. As the others drift into a hum of chatter - planning tomorrow's trip, maybe - her green eyes delve into his soul and she's begging him silently to tell her if he's making the right choice, if he really wants to do this.

The fingers of her other hand reach for his cheek, scraping through the stubble there and drifting around the curve of his ear, painfully gentle and Clint closes his eyes, almost allowing himself to get lost in a moment that's become simultaneously wonderful and frightening for the feelings it's creating in his uncertain soul.

A shadow falls over the assassins, breaking the interlude - Clint senses it and his gaze snaps up as Natasha turns sharply.

"Actually," Bruce says, hovering over the seated pair, "I'd like to walk you back to your room, Clint, if you both don't mind."

Clint's eyebrow twitches upward; he knows without looking that Tony's mirroring his expression and he cracks a small grin. "Uh, Bruce, I really appreciate all the help you've given me, but I just don't feel that way about you. Thanks, though…?"

Tony snorts gleefully about little green archer babies, Thor guffaws, and Natasha elbows Clint in the ribs gently - she doesn't know about the gash there and he does his best to hide the sudden hiss slipping through his teeth because he knows she's amused by his comment and she really, really deserves something to smile about. "That's fine, Bruce," she says, and she squeezes Clint's hand, still intertwined with hers, and rises to help him carefully to his feet. "I'll be by in just a bit, okay?"

Clint nods at her, and gives another little nod of acknowledgement to Tony and Thor - Stark's still smirking but they've drifted on to excitedly discussing something new Tony's working on; it's interesting enough that Natasha drops herself back onto the far end of the couch near Thor, tucking her long legs under her and settling in to listen. Clint looks at her for a moment, feels something tight wrap around his chest; but when Bruce clears his throat and hands Clint his crutches the archer shakes it off and cocks his head in a gesture for Bruce to precede him out of the room, filing thoughts of his partner under Things to Reexamine When He's Not So Fucked Up, a mental lockbox he's not sure he'll _**ever**_ get to.

They're halfway to Clint's room, the only noticeable sound being Clint's crutches scraping across the floor, when Bruce says calmly,

"You don't have to do this."

Clint doesn't even think on a response, just fires back the first thing that pops into his brain. "Do I have another option?"

"Clint." Bruce stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Clint's bright eyes meet the doctor's dark ones; the archer sees concern in Banner's narrow gaze and he wonders again what Bruce suspects about Clint's time as Loki's thrall. "_**Can**_ you do this?"

_I don't know. _

_I don't think so. _

_I don't want to. _

"I have to," he says softly.

"You can face Loki again?" Bruce persists determinedly. "With everything he's done, knowing that he's still messing with you now? That's how you're going to end this?"

_I don't know._

_I don't think so._

_I don't want to. _

_But I have to do something._

"I have to," he says again, and he wonders why Bruce can't see how simple it really is. He forces a laugh, flashes Bruce a winning grin. "He messed around with my head a little. Sort of like you and the Other Guy, only Loki's not as big and green and adorable."

The look Bruce gives him is priceless and Clint thinks he's distracted Bruce enough that he resumes crutching down the hallway, Bruce following.

"I think it was a little more than that," the doctor says, and even though his low voice is barely above a gentle murmur Clint hears him clearly, closes his eyes and pushes the stirring memories away.

"It's nothing," he mumbles quietly.

"Clint - "

"You tell me what else to do, Bruce, and I'll happily do it," Clint finally snaps, and he really, _**really**_wishes Bruce actually has an alternative in mind, because he sure as hell can't think of one and he's been racking his brain since Thor told him the awesome news that Loki's still crawling around his head somewhere. In some ways, it's kind of a relief to know that a lot of the shit he thinks has been his fault really isn't him, but staring down the demigod who ripped him to shreds isn't exactly something Clint's looking forward to.

"I don't have anything," Bruce sighs. "It's just … I know how difficult this is going to be for you. I know what he - "

"No, you don't," Clint says firmly. No way he's going _**there**_ with Bruce or any-fucking-body. He offers Bruce a tired smile. "Neither of us has a better idea." He opens the door to his room, awkwardly maneuvers inside. "So we do what we have to do. Right?"

There. That sounds sort of like the old Clint Barton. Clint allows himself a little pride, even if his heart feels like it's trying to thump its way out of his chest. "I'll see you in the morning, okay?" A conspiratorial teasing grin. "Don't want Natasha to get jealous."

Bruce looks unhappy but sighs a good night, and Clint … Clint goes to the quiver of shiny purple arrows tucked away under his bed and pulls one out, eyeing it deep in thought before setting it on his night table purposefully, Bruce's words rattling around his mind:

_That's how you're going to end this? _

End this by _talking_ to Loki? Doubtful.

But he _**is**_ going to end this.

OoOoOoOoOo

Coming up on the end of this story soon … finally? Thanks, readers, for commenting, suggesting, encouraging, reviewing, following, and favoriting. It really means a lot, so if you're able, keep doing it, please!


	31. Chapter 31

Thank you for the reviews! You keep the Muse happy which means updates, and receiving them is my genuine pleasure. :D

This is one of those chapters an author posts thinking, "Hmm, I wonder if anyone will keep reading after this..." lol

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Deep below the Allfather's palace, surrounded by jagged walls of unforgiving rock and unhearing darkness, Loki Layuefson sits, a puppet master whose puppets have all had their strings cut.

All save one, for he and his little hawk have a very special bond, forged when the hawk had become Loki's _first_, strengthened when the hawk had become Loki's _best._ The god of mischief should have, perhaps, chosen a weaker mind to test out his new Tessaract powers on, but how thrilling was it for the soon-to-be king to select one of the sharpest of the assembled Midguardians to wrest control from, to devour with warm blue light as he stole the _heart_ from the hawk.

It was not, however, a choice without consequence. The hawk had fought and struggled and required near-constant maintenance, but Loki had found _ways_ to keep his hawk in line because his little pet was oh-so-interesting and had much to say, and much to offer. His hawk had lived a robust existence, and sometimes it amused Loki to simply watch as he allowed his hawk's nightmares to come to life, to eat him alive while he writhed and screamed and begged for release or death.

The memory of it scatters chills of pleasure down Loki's spine. He is so close to hearing those screams again that just the thought sends stirring warmth throughout him, driving off the persistent chill of his underground prison. Thoughts of his hawk keep him distracted while he waits out the misery of this place, and Loki smiles fondly; his hawk is such a good little pet, even now.

An approaching presence tickles his mind and Loki opens his eyes, lifts his hand from his lap; a pleased smirk stretches across his thin, pale features.

_Finally. _

His hawk is here.

Loki rises to his feet, his simple dark robes brushing the floor as he stands and makes his way to the thick door in the far wall. He wishes he'd been given the opportunity to clean and prepare himself properly for this moment, but even as frayed as his robes are, as ringed with exhaustion as his brilliant eyes are, he perceives with satisfaction he is still superior to the Midguardians in every way.

The group clatters down the stone steps in the typically loud and graceless way of Midguardians and Loki's nose wrinkles delicately in distaste. How clichéd is it that his hawk arrives complete with escort: Loki's own dunce of a "brother" and the other "Avengers"ringing Barton in a ridiculously overprotective and completely pointless circle.

This won't do at all. He could snap his hawk right now, make him turn on his companions with the shining blue promise of death in his eyes - kill them and free his god - but Loki sees that although the others are loaded down with weapons - Stark's even wearing his absurd metal suit - Loki's hawk carries no weapons. This furrows the demigod's brow lightly - _**is**_ his pet truly too damaged to use his beloved weapon any more? Interesting but gratifying: although he's planned for it, Loki doesn't want his hawk to attempt anything "heroic;" he does not wish to bring further physical harm to Agent Barton.

Attacking the others will wait, though not for long.

"Loki!" Thor's voice rattles the small set of iron bars forming a window within his prison door; Loki winces at the volume of his completely and ridiculously overly boisterous brother. "We will have words with you!"

Loki smiles. He has had ages to plan this meeting, knows exactly how every word and detail will transpire. After all, he grew to a man alongside Thor, knows his preposterously predictable brother nearly as well as himself, and he knows Barton's mind _intimately_.

"I have no time for your unannounced visit today, dear brother," the words drip off his tongue and Loki sees to his delight his hawk clustered near the rear of the group, his nervous posture a stark contrast to the aggressively ready stances of his companions. Loki longs to see the effect his voice has on his pet; in his imaginings of this moment, he sees Barton's skin washing out to pale, sees the tension that coils his deliciously lithe frame, the firm set that locks his strong jaw.

Loki passionately _**hates**_ Thor even more in this moment for obscuring his full view of his hawk, and he resolves to soon punish his brother for ruining a moment long anticipated.

"Perhaps you can schedule an appointment for tomorrow?" he suggests darkly, though his heart trips in an unexpected beat of fear that perhaps his hawk _**will**_ walk away …

But, no. Loki calms immediately. He's wound his little hawk too tight, tormented him too much, for his once-proud pet to just walk away now. He hears Stark mutter "there's no scheduling around _**crazy**_," and the lovely Agent Romanoff shushes him irritably.

"Now, Loki," Thor insists, followed by Stark's "yeah, because we hate to interrupt all the _**crazy**_ you've got going on here," and Banner's longsuffering, "We _**get it**_, Stark. He's crazy."

Loki sighs dramatically, just to get under the skin of fidgeting group, but in truth the demigod's ecstatic, thrilled, _hungry_ for the culmination of his long-wrought plans - months and months of cultivating these next few moments.

"What could you possibly wish of me?" he asks humbly. "What can I possibly offer?"

"We must speak to you of the Tessaract," Thor says bluntly. "Of any … lingering effects there may be."

"Oh?" Loki is careful to sound only curious, but he knows he's almost purring as he drifts closer to the door, catches the gaze of his prey. "Agent Barton," he says lightly. "So good to see you again. Trouble, then, with our little experiment?"

Barton glares at him hatefully, and Loki gasps softly. It's been too long since his little hawk looked at him so, loathing him with everything he was but so buried under the control of the Tessaract that he was forced to obey his master's every command and desire.

_Soon,_ Loki promises himself, repressing a shiver. It was becoming increasingly difficult to appear uninterested - apparently he'd been anticipating his hawk's arrival more than even he could comprehend.

"There are yet troubles with the Tessaract affecting thoughts," Thor says, and behind him, Barton winces, clearly unhappy with Thor's directness - as he should be. It would have been a dangerous weakness to reveal if Loki weren't already aware of it.

"Of course I will do all I can to assist," Loki says, enjoying the look of tired relief that crosses his hawk's face, along with others in his group. "But it will take some time and the process may be mentally straining. I would like to speak with Agent Barton alone, if he will permit it." He says it, already knowing there's no way they'll go for it - they'd be fools to agree to it - and from the clamor of overlapping voices decrying his proposition, he is actually not disappointed in them, but he _**is**_ surprised when Barton growls, "fine," like it's the most normal request in the world.

Like he'd expected it.

Loki frowns just barely, pokes at his hawk's mind: the demigod isn't nervous, he just wants to assure that all of his carefully-laid plans remain intact. He's pleased to find that only apprehension and dread lie beneath the gruff exterior the archer presents, and Loki resumes smiling.

Perfect.

His breath catches when the archer pushes past his companions and steps into the room: his perfect little pet looks even more tired and haggard up close, and his black clothes hang off him in places where they'd once been deliciously tight and molded to firm muscles. Of course Loki had been expecting something like this - you don't make a man _bleed_ himself nearly every night without consequences, but it is somewhat difficult to see his delicious hawk so exhausted and tarnished.

After all, Loki has been without _company_ for some time now.

"Agent Barton," Loki greets, and though he could delve deeper into the hawk's mind now, he's decided to wait a few moments longer. He's missed how agonizingly lovely it is when his hawk gets angry, and he wants to savor every second of Barton's fiercely clutched independence before he finally seizes the man's mind completely.

Thor's massive body hunkers in to settle firmly beside Barton, and Loki swiftly covers a snarl. Of _course_ they wouldn't completely accede to Barton's wishes, not having come all this way, and not with the pitiful way they seem intent on 'protecting' the archer. As if they could protect him - or themselves - from what is about to happen. The remainder of their pathetic group makes their noisy way back up the stairs, but Loki knows they haven't gone far. "Brother. Privacy, please."

"We have questions, Loki," Thor says grimly, "And we require answers."

Loki already knows both the questions _**and**_ the answers, having been their primary instigator, but he settles his piercing gaze on Barton and waves his slender hand. "Ask away, Agent Barton," he offers graciously.

"We must know of the Tessaract," Thor interrupts, and both Loki and Barton shoot him a swiftly irritated look - although one is relieved by the warrior's presence and the other annoyed, both men feel that this is a meeting meant for the two of them only.

Easily solved when Loki waves his hand again and Thor freezes where he stands.

"What did you do?" Barton demands immediately, checking pulse, breathing, whatever he deems important, while Loki watches in amusement.

"I merely gave us the privacy we desired," Loki says smoothly, and Barton shoots him a disgruntled look as he settles back into a ready stance, apparently having decided there is little he can do for Thor.

"Don't fuck with me," the archer growls.

Loki smiles darkly, _adores_ it when his hawk pales further.

Barton recovers quickly, though his fists are clenching and unclenching furiously; he's a coiled spring, ready to snap - so close, he's so close, and Loki is ready to close in for the kill.

"I want you out of my head," Barton snap, and Loki shakes his head slowly.

"Dear little hawk," he murmurs placatingly, "do you know how ensconced I am in every corner of your mind? In every dark space you think you've hidden, every shadow you think will never see the light of day?" Loki smiles. "That's where I am, my hawk, and that's where I will ever be."

Barton shakes his head disbelievingly. "Get the fuck out," he repeats stubbornly.

Loki draws back, puts a mocking hand to his chest. "Now that I have you here? Perish the thought, Agent Barton." His smile is taunting, but somehow wistful as he adds, "I could have left you believing you were just going crazy; seeing things, slicing into your lovely skin, hearing voices, all on your own … I could have." He drops to a whisper. "Or I could have killed you right away." He's so close now, he can see the tremors disrupting the archer's deliberately casual stance. He leans in, breathes into the trembling Barton's ear, "but you know how I love to take my time with you."

If possible, his hawk whitens further and Loki preens in delight. "Stop it," Barton says shakily, and a look settles on his dismally pinched face that clearly says he now knows what a horrible idea it was to come here, to send his companions away - but it's too late for that.

"I wanted to bring you to your knees, little hawk," Loki continues, prowling around the unsteady archer like a cat waiting to pounce. Doing this means he also has to walk around Thor's immobile frame, which Loki finds utterly _annoying _so he returns to face Barton as soon as possible_. _"Slowly. A little at a time, until you believed you were crazy. Until you believed it was all your fault, and that every scar, every death, every time your friends look at you with horror and loathing in their stupid eyes is because _you __**deserve**__ it. _Because you do, don't you?"

Still pale, still precarious, Barton unexpectedly looks him in the eye. "No," he says softly. "I don't."

Loki blinks, recovers quickly. "What?"

Barton's glare is frozen hatred, glinting icily from stormy eyes. "It's not my fault you're fucking nuts," he growls.

Loki rocks back, and he experiences a subconscious disappointment as he leaves the warmth of the archer's closeness but a pleased grin lights his face. "I see I may have clipped your wings but I fear I missed your talons, little hawk." The thin grin drops from his expression, a dark light taking over; the time has arrived to reclaim what is rightfully his. "I should have you kill my brother right now as punishment for your insolence," Loki sneers, surveying the ashen face staring steadily back at him. "Would you like that? Would you like to strip the flesh from his bones, Agent Barton?"

"Just yours, actually," Barton snarls back, "though probably something a little less messy would work just as well; I've spent a lot of time thinking about ways to kill you."

Loki trills in unexpected delight. "So dark! You think you're all grown up, don't you little hawk? So tough, so in control … is _**that**_ what you've been thinking while I've been taking your mind from you piece by piece?" Loki shakes his head pityingly. "I don't think it is. Because you _**know**_, don't you? You _**know**_ that you'll always be a danger to yourself and others?" His voice is pitched low, hypnotic and calm, wrapping the words around the wounded archer with the skill of much practice. Loki leans closer, his cheek brushing Barton's, whispers in his hawk's ear. "Because I'll always be with you, right here in your mind, telling you what to do. And when you finally give in, finally let in all those dear, adorable friends who've been rooting for you, when you finally embrace Stark as a brother, or sweet Natasha as a lover, _I'll be right there with you."_ He leans back, looks down at Barton, says softly,

"And we'll watch together as I make you kill them."

And Loki hears his hawk snarl, "I don't know, I think this is a pretty good start."

And the god of mischief feels a _tearing_ inside his head as the mind he thought under his control rips away fiercely.

He sees the flash as Barton moves.

And he has just enough time to open his mouth to scream before his hawk's slender arrow, the one that Loki hadn't noticed tucked inside the archer's boot, slides swiftly into his eye socket.

OoOoOoOoOo

Yay, Clint!

if you have any thoughts on the chapter, please review! Reviews give me the same warm and fuzzy feeling I get when I see the words "naked" and "Clint" in close proximity. (uh oh - Muse trigger! Down, Muse, down! Nobody wants naked Clint stories! Whew … did it just get really warm in here? XD) Please please review!


	32. Chapter 32

**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

It wasn't done in a fit of rage.

He didn't gradually "come back to himself" and stare in horror at the crumpled demigod at his feet, wondering what had come over him, what the _**hell**__ had he done…? _

He didn't feel remorse or pity, or even fear for what would follow, whatever the Asgardian punishment was for killing the son of the king even if Loki was a fucked-up, crazy bastard who took great glee in ruining people's lives - in nearly destroying _**his**_ life.

No, if he died now, Clint Barton could go to the next life a satisfied man.

Clint doesn't bother to retrieve his arrow; he deliberately leaves it buried in his tormentor's skull as he turns to check Thor over without another thought toward the body sprawled on the floor. He doesn't quite believe that he's _**free**_, but perhaps without the voices - without _**that**_ voice - in his head, he'll be a long way towards _functional_ again. And, really, that's pretty much all he can ask for from this life.

Thor's okay, and Clint thinks maybe he's a little luckier than he deserves to be, because apparently whatever spell Loki had cast on his brother only rendered Thor immobile while leaving him aware of his surroundings and what was happening - typical Loki, Clint feels, since the fucker had used it on _**him**_ a few times when he felt Hawkeye was showing just a little too much spirit and a little too little submission.

Clint shivers, checks the slowly recovering Thor's pulse for something to do. The archer's waiting, ironically, for the god of thunder to drop a metaphorical hammer on him since he just killed Thor's kid brother, but instead, with only a small noise of wordless grief from deep in his throat as he surveys his fallen kin, Thor turns to the unsteady marksman. He clasps Clint in a manly sort of embrace before moving the archer back to arm's length, grasping Clint's forearms so he can look him in the eyes.

"My deepest apologies, my friend," Thor says gently, "that you should have been made to suffer further." He murmurs a few quiet words to Loki's body and calls for the guards; Clint sees the sorrow in the warrior's gaze, understands that maybe what Thor really wants to do is stay with his brother for a bit and grieve, but the demigod instead beckons for Clint to use his strength to steady himself as they begin the slow trek back to their anxious teammates.

Clint wonders if he should apologize, if there's something he should say, but at the moment he's only feeling an apprehensive sort of relief and nothing even semi-intelligent to offer is jumping to mind. They trudge up the stairs with Clint leaning on Thor more than he likes, since as an ill thought-out show of independence, he'd left his crutches with Natasha before they'd approached Loki's prison, but now he thinks his bravado might be costing him his pride anyway as he's forced to cling to Thor's massive body like a broken toy and each sluggish step upward ripples agony through his still-healing limbs.

Their teammates are waiting. Clint ducks his head awkwardly; he feels a little embarrassed at the _**pride**_ their faces reflect for him, pride that in the end he was strong enough to overcome the one who tried to destroy and reclaim him, and it's making him uncomfortable because he's not sure he deserves to be a part of _**this**_ team - not because he's not a "superhero," but because he doesn't know if he can even begin to give them back everything they've given him. Clint swallows hard, tries to smile; Tony looks ready to hug him in a manly way similar to Thor, Bruce is offering him that small, paternal sort of half-smile he adopts at times, and God, _**please**_ don't let Natasha be looking a little teary_-_eyed, because he really can't take that right now when she's the strongest one of them all and if she's wearing _**that**_ expression he was farther gone than even he realized.

They know what he did, but they're not judging him and neither are they openly applauding his actions. They're just there, supporting him, and it's a strange feeling for the man who has of late been cut off from the only "family" he'd ever really had - that had ended when Phil died and his fuckhead fellow agents starting beating the crap out of him.

He risks a look back at the team; Natasha's got his arm now so he doesn't have to stretch his wounded shoulder hanging off of Thor, and despite his innately suspicious nature he actually finds himself thinking there might be something to this little group, even though the Avengers aren't really official any more. It seems like even Natasha is satisfied, almost happy with them, maybe he could be too…

Clint's face screws up in a frown as he shuffles along. He's pretty sure he's not meant for happy endings; it wouldn't really fit the pattern of his life.

Somehow he makes it out of Asgard without too much trouble, though he didn't really earn himself any points with Odin for stabbing Loki - he's sure as hell not getting an invite back for awhile - but apparently Odin isn't in the dark about his youngest son's activities on Earth, and perhaps he feels that Clint had valid reasons. In any case, whatever Thor tells his father flies, and Clint's soon heading back to Manhattan (after learning that he _**loves**_ traveling by Tessaract or however the hell Thor does it; it makes him resolve to get his bike out of storage as soon as possible) with no small amount of relief and a much lighter heart, and maybe even a renewed outlook on life that he's fervently trying to squelch because that's probably just too much.

It turns out that it is too much.

He's still healing slowly and he's frustrated. Weeks go by and he still can barely use even Tony's kiddie bow; he hates his therapist (not her fault) and he hates himself (probably his fault) and he hates that the others are still able to do Avenger-y type things while he's stuck doing goddamn _**nothing**_ (definitely _**not**_ their fault.) Their work isn't officially sanctioned, but Tony's still determined to make a difference, and as he points out, there isn't exactly a Superhero Registry where everyone forms a neat little line and is assigned their own handler and locker. Crazies were gunning for Iron Man and the others before they'd reluctantly joined SHIELD and they're still after them now.

Tony tries to help Clint feel useful by assigning him to monitor for threats and assign the team as necessary, but it's essentially a desk job and Clint's no fucking Phil Coulson, he _can't do this. _And _**that**_ makes him miserable, because he's really trying to be grateful and repay them in any small way he can.

But Clint's also noticed that Natasha is growing extremely jumpy. Clint knows her well; he's noticed that something has been nagging at her since before they left for Asgard. Usually she keeps her emotions under wraps impossible to penetrate, but Clint catches her in a quiet moment once when she comes into the computer room Tony's dubbed Command Central and tries to pry Clint off the computers since his eyes are starting to dry out from staring at screens for so long because he's determined to be _useful_. He's simultaneously touched and a little annoyed by her hovering, but he knows he'd be doing the exact same thing in her place.

Natasha helps him stand, coaxes him to breathe through the pain of knotted muscles unclenching because he's been sitting way longer than he should've, and she walks slowly beside him as he crutches along. Tony's promised to make him a kickass cane with knives and maybe lasers and some shit (_lasers?_ he'd questioned the inventor cautiously when Tony had first broached the idea) when he's done with these fucking monstrosities and Clint can't wait.

He slides a sideways glance at his partner - it's hard to think of her as anything else, since for so long he _**couldn't**_think of her as anything else - his brow furrowing at the tension written across her lovely face in ink only he can read, because only he knows how to read her so clearly.

But with Nat, he didn't ask normal questions like "what's wrong?" because he'd never get the real answer. Clint's minds drifts back through his hazy memories, sifting and searching for any clue, any trigger. He doesn't think it's him directly, so there are only a few other things that could be bothering her.

"Do you wonder what's going on with SHIELD much?" he asks quietly. "With Fury and Steve and - " Clint swallows hard at the hated name on his tongue, hopes she doesn't notice his lapse - "Hill?"

Natasha shrugs, but he notices as tension stiffens her lithe frame. "I'm sure the director's busy. He's got Rogers, of course, but Hill transferred out."

That doesn't sound quite right, almost sounds too good to be true. "Hill transferred?" he asks, hoping to hell he sounds casual and not squeaky like he thinks he does.

Natasha nods, even gives him a small smile. "Yes" she says simply. "She's gone."

Clint stumbles a little with his crutch and really hopes Natasha doesn't catch that it's just an excuse to turn his face away from her so she doesn't see the emotion wash over his expression. He doesn't notice that of _**course**_ she sees it, and that seeing his relief so palpable furthers the hatred still burning in her for Hill but also thaws a little of the ice that had settled around her heart after she'd killed the SHIELD agent ultimately responsible for Clint's abduction and subsequent maltreatment.

As far as SHIELD knows, Hill went MIA; all Clint needs to know is that she'll never touch him again.

Natasha lays a hand on Clint's arm in an open gesture of affection that surprises both of them. He's always amazed her with his ability to pinpoint what's bothering her, and she marvels that he knows her so completely.

Clint pauses, leans against the wall. Fuck, he's tired, and the news about Hill takes more out of him than he wants to admit. "So," he wonders, "this is where we're at? No SHIELD. No official Avengers. I'm still basically useless," he says it with a grin but she knows better, "… what the hell are we going to do?"

Natasha's breath stops when she realizes that he'd said _we_. Almost everything they know has crumbled around them, she'd left for awhile, he'd gotten the shit kicked out of him by life _**again**_. Agents Romanoff and Barton were no more … but they are still Natasha and Clint.

She presses him back against the wall gently, kisses his lips lightly and smiles into his bright, surprised eyes. "I don't know," she says huskily, "I think we've still got some options on the table."

OoOoOoOoOo

_Well, I met an old man dying on a train_

_No more destination, no more pain_

_Well, he said, one thing before I graduate:_

_Never let your fear decide your fate_

Though he still can't use it, Clint's case with his beloved collapsible bow and quiver tucked neatly inside is on the seat along with his duffel and truly-as-kickass-as-promised cane. He's going to meet Natasha in one month's time at a non-SHIELD safe house they'd established together in Arizona years ago … until then, he thinks he just needs a little time to get his head back on straight.

Nat had offered to come with him - so had Tony for that matter, for a "bro-tastic tour of the U.S." - but Clint's finally feeling like he has a few minutes to himself, so he _**needs**_ those few minutes for himself. He needs to think, needs to function without being hovered over, and he's admittedly nervous about the idea of meeting Natasha alone indefinitely as a friend (_friend?_) and not her partner. Not so nervous that he's not going to show up, though, and he's excited about the idea of wide-open space and clear skies.

He's halfway to the middle of nowhere that's his destination. On his dash is a slightly crumpled envelope Tony had given him when he'd left; Clint can already tell there's a picture inside and he rolls his eyes at the cliché even as he reaches for the envelope. Written on the front in Tony's looping scrawl are the words:

_So you'll remember us when you're gone,_

_Even though we know it won't be for long. _

_XOXO, Tony_

Clint's probably wrong, but he thinks there's a slight burning in his eyes even as he quietly concedes it'd be nice to have a picture of them. He wonders how campy it is, if they all have their arms around each other and are trying to convey to him the camaraderie they once shared. Clint knows Thor's a big fan of the camera, and the warrior's probably mugging it up with that ridiculous smirk he thinks - correctly - makes women swoon.

Clint fishes the picture out, telling himself sternly not to give in to the sappiness of it all.

It takes him an unfortunate minute of squinting and turning his head to realize that it's a picture of Hulk's giant green naked ass.

Clint laughs, he sobs, he tucks the picture away and vows _**never**_ to look at it again.

And he wonders if Tony's right …

… maybe he won't be gone long.

_I say you kill your heroes and fly, fly, baby, don't cry_

_No need to worry 'cause everybody dies_

_Every day we just go, go, baby, don't go_

_Don't you worry, we love you more than you_ _know_

OoOoOoOoOo

Whew! Just the epilogue left, I can't believe it. If you've enjoyed this story at all, at any point, I'd really appreciate it if you'd let me know; drop me a review or a pm if you can. And don't forget about the epilogue, which will be up in a couple of days! There are one or two things in there that I think will make a few readers quite happy, plus we get to see more of Steve. XD

Lyrics are from AWOL Nation's "Kill Your Heroes," a song that makes me think of Clint every time I hear it (I think it's the "fly, fly," part, lol)


	33. Chapter 33

**Syn's Gratuitously Long Author's Notes:** I will readily admit that I don't want to post this epilogue. Posting this last bit means that the story is finally _**over**_, and that's a really sad thought! I can't thank enough the readers who have taken the time to read, review, suggest, critique: you've made this story better in so many ways. _**Thank you**_. Readers who have left the comfortable world of lurking to leave a review, thank you. And readers who took a minute to answer my random questions (I should add more whump? Okay! Bring Natasha back? Done! Not dragging too much? Hooray! ;), thank you, thank you, thank you.

When I started _Slipping_ I wasn't sure if I could write an Avengers fic, so I truly appreciate all the feedback that turned an angsty little one-shot about not-zombies into an angst-riddled thirty-chapter plus h/c about characters looking for redemption and maybe finding at least a little of it along the way. Your comments have made me smile, laugh, sniffle, and just be proud of this fic. Thank you. Writing it has been my genuine pleasure. ;)

I'm always nervous about ending a story, because generally readers are either going to love or despise where you've left the characters. Fingers crossed it's the former! Also, this feels more like a _**prologue** _to me than an _**epilogue**,_ but there you go. ;)

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**Slipping**

By: Syntyche

Epilogue

Something wakes Clint out of a dead sleep.

He jolts up in bed, his fingers scrabbling across the sheets. Sometimes he still reaches for a knife no longer kept under his pillow, and this is one of those times. As he listens cautiously, his left hand unconsciously curls into a fist that he presses against the bullet scar on his left thigh, kneading against the rough skin gently to try and ease out some of the bone-deep ache his little adventure with SHIELD vigilantes and Loki has left him with.

The hawk slides out from under the covers, careful not to jostle Natasha. His ex-partner has her own room, but between his nightmares and her nightmares and his frustration with his slow healing progress and her innate restlessness, they just find it easier at the end of the day to crawl into the big bed in Clint's room, back to back like they're in some shithole gutter like they've done a hundred times before, and fall asleep to the other's steady, reassuring presence.

Clint slips his jeans over his lean hips and fishes his handgun from the nightstand table by his side of the bed. Nat's got her own weaponry on her side: her bracers and knives are within easy reach. They might be effectively retired from active duty - at least for now - but the pair of assassins certainly don't let their guard down just because they aren't out hunting down baddies every single day.

Clint doesn't think his limp will ever quite go away despite Nat's quiet encouragement, or the ache in his right shoulder where his arrow tore coming back out. Some days when it's really bad he hurts _**everywhere**_; he grits his teeth and does the exercises his therapists taught him and tries not to show Natasha how much pain he's actually in because those are the days he doesn't know if he can do this and he doesn't want to worry her any more than she already does.

The hawk still manages to pad to the kitchen almost noiselessly, using a doorframe here and a table there for support. Clint hears the whine of familiar repulsors on the porch and immediately a grin breaks across his face; he unlocks and opens the front door just as Tony's lifting his hand to knock.

"S'up?" he asks casually, his smile widening at Tony's look of surprise.

"Nice reflexes, Feathers," Tony shoots back as he raises his eyebrow at the half-naked archer. "Am I interrupting something with the little lady?" he leers suggestively.

"Nope, Pepper already left," Clint retorts with a smirk and Tony chortles in that way he does when he's surprised someone's actually managed to outplay him.

"Don't let Romanoff hear you," Iron Man advises, "I'm getting too old to come rescue you again."

The still night air is raising goosebumps across his exposed flesh, but Clint enjoys the quiet calm of the desert night. "_Please_," he _pshaws _graciously, "You're barely a day over seventy. And as I've already told you a hundred times, _**I**_ rescued _**you**_."

"Agree to disagree, birdbrain," Tony compromises sweetly without waiting for Clint to agree at all. "Are you going to leave me standing out here freezing my thrusters off or what?" he snarks in mock-irritation.

"Sorry," Clint mutters, not apologetic in the least as he hops back a little and gestures Tony to enter. Tony's sharp eyes dart around the large, clean kitchen of the ranch-style home: everything is simple and efficient - except for the crazy-expensive security system - like the people who inhabit this space. Without getting too mushy, Tony's glad these crazy kids to have found a little happiness somehow in their messed-up lives.

But right now they have work to do.

"I need a couple of highly skilled master assassins, and yours were the first names on Google," Tony proclaims, and Clint hopes that last part is a joke even as he decides to check: SHIELD isn't out scrubbing their identities any longer.

Hesitation crosses Clint's face but he resolutely hits the button to start the coffee maker, already primed for morning.

"I'll get Nat," he says.

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Steve Rogers is waiting for them when they arrive at Stark's tower the next evening.

It was nice of Tony, Clint decides, to at least let them agree to help before telling them he already had a private plane waiting for them at the little county airport. He and Nat actually hadn't had to debate much at all: they'd adjusted to a temporarily private life with no small amount of trepidation and no clear idea of what they were doing, although Clint had to admit there's a certain amount of peace in their quiet routine.

The hawk's afraid, though, that it might be too quiet, too dull, for the fiery redhead who has never had a day of quiet domesticity in her life unless it was undercover. Clint can't help but wonder if the day is coming where the Black Widow will decide she just can't _do_ quiet, so maybe a little time back in the field is what they need, and Clint's resolved to watch Natasha as carefully as possible in case she decides she's missed this life too much to leave it any longer and he needs to just let her go for her own sake.

But that's her decision, not his, and Clint simply and sadly steels himself to be ready for it if it comes.

Steve greets them with a smile and Clint's glad to see the soldier. His memories of the weeks post-rescue (his rescue, of Tony) are hazy and painful, but he does remember bits and pieces and he knows Steve was there for a lot of it. Natasha had told him that Cap and Tony'd had a falling out over SHIELD, but Tony greets Steve with a firm handshake and a guarded nod.

Steve inquires after Clint's health and Natasha's wellbeing, and Clint waves a hello to Bruce, but it's really, _**really**_ difficult to look at the scientist with any semblance of dignity as soon as Clint thinks of the ass picture from Tony so he warbles a choked-sounding hello to Bruce that has a concerned Natasha asking him if he forgot his pain meds. Clint ducks his head in a "no" and promptly sits himself down to exaggeratedly scrutinize the briefing documents Steve's laid out so he doesn't have to look at Bruce.

_Don't think green, Barton, don't think green…_

"Go over the briefing again," Tony instructs Steve, and Steve, being the modest and unassuming Captain America, immediately starts off with an almost-apology.

"I'm here unofficially," he says, his blue eyes somber, "because I agree with Tony that this team _**works**_, and that's what we need right now."

Clint listens as Steve explains; he's rubbing his thigh absently, brow furrowing as Steve goes on. It turns out that the guy Fury was having trouble with several months back - some asshole calling himself Kane who's messing around with time displacement - is still at it, but now SHIELD has a lead because the guy's started targeting past SHIELD employees. Clearly he's looking for specific people since his victims don't appear to be as random now; Steve's discovered the most recently displaced men and women were all involved in the early stages of the Avengers Initiative. Apparently there's even speculation that this is what happened to Hill, that maybe she was one of the people pulled _**into**_ the timeline instead of _**out**_ like most of the others, but Steve doesn't bring this up until later because the second he utters Hill's name he gets shut down immediately by Natasha and the conversation is skillfully redirected before he even realizes what's happened.

Clint almost smiles at the five of them clustered around the coffee table in the commons. If Thor were here it'd actually be like an Avengers planning session as they stay up late into the night drinking Tony's expensive coffee and strategizing. Clint's eyelids are starting to feel heavy as the hours roll by and he's a little angry and embarrassed at the betrayal from his healing body, but Natasha, as ever, is in tune with him and gently suggests they call it a night. Tony stretches and yawns and proclaims loudly that that's a good idea and they can pick this up in the morning, but as Clint and Natasha head toward Nat's old rooms Clint notes that Tony, Steve, and Bruce are trading in Tony's expensive coffee for Tony's expensive alcohol, and that the tension hanging in the air at the start of the night has lessened considerably.

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Tony watches Clint leave, clinging to Natasha unobtrusively to keep his tired feet moving. The inventor's proud of his friend; he's not ashamed to admit it. Clint has come a hell of a long way - and Tony didn't miss how the archer had studiously avoided looking at Banner all night; he knows _**that**_ picture's to blame, the one he was going to save in case he ever needed to blackmail Bruce but seemed to have a much better home with Clint.

Tony allows his smile to fade as he settles a dark gaze on the solider sitting across from him; Steve's a curious mixture of relaxed and tense, and Tony gets the feeling he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He's happy to oblige.

"So, why are you still working for these guys after what they did?" Tony demands, tone steady and firm. "Do you remember what they _**did**_ to Barton?"

"I remember." Steve returns Tony's glare with steely resolve and leans forward earnestly. "I remember what _**some**_ of them did, and that what they did was wrong and should never happen again."

"And you think you can fix it?" Tony challenges. "You think you can make it better?"

"I know I can try," Steve says.

OoOoOoOoOo

In the next week, Steve's "solid lead" turns into a sure thing and off they go, to a bunker in the middle of Wisconsin somewhere that Clint doesn't bother to remember the name of. He's thrilled that he's able to contribute in some small way to the Avengers' takedown of Kane, even if he's limited to scouting and directing. It's still something.

He tries to keep a straight face when he sets eyes on Kane, a struggling, blue-skinned humanoid wriggling in Iron Man's grip because Tony's ignoring the patented bad guy "I'll be back and you'll be sorry!" speech Kane is spitting out; Tony rolls his eyes and gives Kane a little shake in his iron grip like a wet dog.

"The Avengers are like Mounties!" Tony crows in satisfaction, clearly delighted at the cohesiveness with which their little team had functioned; he deserved to be proud. "We always get our man!"

Clint doesn't bother to point out that _one,_ that's not actually the RCMP motto, and _two_, they're not actually Avengers any more - because it certainly _**feels**_ like they are, and it feels damn good. Hell, he even helped on this mission, and that in itself is cause for celebration - which Nat promises him slyly as she saunters by that they _**will**_ celebrate later on, even as she sighs pointedly at the hawk's amused but also proud declaration of "Hey, I wasn't _useless_!"

Now the cleanup starts, and Clint wonders what they hell they're going to do with all these people who don't belong in this timeline. Tony thinks he can fix the machines Kane used to mess with the timestream and subsequently destroyed when the Avengers stormed the bunker; given enough time, Tony thinks he and Bruce can put them all back where they're supposed to go, them and all the other displaced people SHIELD's been housing since this mess with Kane first started.

Steve's doing the Captain America thing and making sure people are okay; they've been clustered in this bunkers for days, weeks, months even, though apparently they've been provided food and water and only asked minimal questions so Clint's admittedly curious as to what Kane's plan actually was.

He'll find out eventually when Kane makes good on his threat to make them all regret their intrusion into his plan, but for now they're trying to account for everyone here. Cap and Bruce are checking one wing, Clint and Natasha are checking the other, and Tony's hanging on to Kane til Fury himself shows up.

Clint finds himself really wishing he had his cane, his bow, _**something**_ to lean on even though he hasn't really used either in awhile. Nat grabs his arm and he's grateful for the support, but something about the quiet quality of her voice tells him something's _off._

"Clint," she says softly, gestures with her chin to a spot over his shoulder, the next room to check once he clears this one. People are spilling out of various doors, chattering excitedly, pressing for information; there's a lot of noise and motion and the hawk's feeling a little unsteady even before he turns and follow's Natasha's gaze. Clint freezes, feels the blood drain from his face in a wash that leaves him weak at the knees.

"Whoah, easy there, Barton," says a familiar voice laced with amusement. A reassuringly strong hand latches onto his bicep as he stumbles, and Clint finds himself bumping gracelessly into the man who'd come up behind him.

An achingly familiar, smiling man in an immaculate three-piece suit.

_the end. _

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Now. This could be the end. It absolutely could be and was supposed to be. But then I asked readers for their thoughts on some synops for fics that are rattling around my brain (_The Screams All Sound the Same_ garnered the most votes, check it out if you're interested in some angsty Clint and Natasha action!) and discordchick noted that one of the synops could make a sequel to _Slipping_. And it's true! The question is, then, does anyone even _**want**_ a sequel to this story? Because here's the synop:

_My Kingdom Come_

"_I think I've made my terms quite clear. Deliver Agent Barton to me or the others die." The demigod smiles fondly. "I find that I miss my feisty little hawk."_

_Teamfic, slightly angsty but also BAMF!Clint and twisted!Loki._

And I've added Coulson, Protective!Tony and PissedOff!Natasha XD

Soooooooooo … you guys tell me. Yes? No? I'm working on _Screams_ right now so it'll be a little while before I'd start posting it, but that gives you plenty of time to decide. ;)

Thanks again for reading! If you have a minute, please _**please**_ drop me a note or review and let me know if you've enjoyed this fic! It totally brightens my day and inspires the Muse for future fic. :D


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